


Moongazing

by ZephyrCamida



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Clumsy Sex, Daydreams, Denial, Fingering, First Time, Gradual Pining, Long ass fic oh my god, M/M, Make outs galore, Masturbation, Requited Love, Traces of power bottom dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:36:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4092565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZephyrCamida/pseuds/ZephyrCamida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yamaguchi stands paralyzed, cement at his feet as amber eyes pierce him – infiltrate his mind and his sights and his senses. His frantic space. Trapped and transfixed on the sensation of digits cradling his nape, he helplessly sways forward. </p>
<p>Tsukishima parts his lips, lashes low, “I know what you want, Yamaguchi.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moongazing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my final struggle to get out of a six month writer's block. I'm probably not sorry. :'D  
> Also a HUGE thanks to my supportive friends and readers, especially Owly who probably is the main reason I'm back into writing.

* * *

 

When Yamaguchi walks down the street, a world is born in his palm.

 

This world morphs and grows, a globe that blends and absorbs his surroundings – images passing with each gentle admiration. He's held this malleable chalice for years, and it carries the existence and memories of every essence he's ever experienced. Brimming with vitality and flavored with his imagination and observations. And at it's core, an adoration of all things encompassing his fascination of life – the essence of all that lingers around him, given the breath of life through myriads of pigment and words.

 

He loves the way he absorbs the sights around him, a creative resplendence that lurks in every corner and dances with even the most minuscule specks of dust and light. To pour his entire soul into discovering beauty in anything that crosses the olive of his irises, now as natural as breathing – and nothing sets his heart ablaze more. Excites him, inexplicably drives home that realization that he lives within it all.

 

It doesn't matter where he wanders, this world follows him, harvests its surroundings into a fantasy if he so wishes. Yamaguchi walks down city streets, melds that intricate mesh of a concrete world and the ivy of nature that still finds its way through the cracks of an ever evolving civilization. A world that all too often is abandoned to the wayside of grays and simplicity and instant gratification. Convenience.

 

No one holds their gaze for more than two seconds on sights that should be cherished, memorialized.

 

He steps up to the plate in a heartbeat.

 

Maybe he's simply a romantic, but he embraces the idiosyncrasies of even the tiniest pleasures – the gloss of an evening lamp, iridescence graced with a swirl of colors and gentle aura. A sandy sidewalk beneath his feet, paved in lingering sunshine and sprouting fair-weather thoughts as he passes the cracks with a hum on his lips. One step, two step, skip. The admiration that swells in his chest as something just... _captures_ him and the smile that spreads like wildfire, the mirth that fills him whole.

 

Even people meandering almost without thought through a busy city, encompassed by a bubble of self-absorption. Yet somehow they still manage to allow that delicate sphere to mold with the passing of others – no matter how brief or fleeting. A simple gesture, flickering eyes of acknowledgment, the tingle of potential greetings. The possible blooming bright daisies of curiosity or the invasive weeds of apathy. Each facet Yamaguchi admires paints a piece of his little world in vivid brevity and life.

 

Day by day, Yamaguchi lives within this massive jubilation. His mind works in mysterious ways, but there isn't a waking hour that passes where he doesn't enjoy it. This vessel he keeps close to him never fails to create a brilliant sky-rise out of even little pebbles on the shoreline.

 

This world of his is his greatest vignette, his stalwart shield.

 

Never would it betray him.

 

* * *

 

With a relaxing gait, sight downcast – counting the cracks, spotting sepia freckles in the pavement – Yamaguchi strolls the city bustle. He wanders with a melody on his tongue, gradients of the setting sky and kaleidoscope luminosity of the city – dots of pollution-muddled stars and traffic lights all mixing into a quirky air that leaves a sense of harmony in his chest.

 

Lungs crisp with autumn air, the brunet blows out a fog of condensation, sidestepping an elderly biker as he crosses the street. Smiles politely before hopping on the white stripes and back into the crowd of dinner rush pedestrians.

 

Even through wayward focus of arbitrary outer details, Yamaguchi also admires the rosy hues on the cheeks of children holding their mothers' hands and the gentle laughter of a trio of middle school students – each donning braided scarves with cute yarn-like tassels. A middle age woman walking her puppy, just the right amount of wrinkles to make her radiant, the couple attached at the hip, a young man with torn jeans listening to music on his phone – his company of strangers, the brunet finds it pleasant.

 

Enchanting.

 

It's not until he arrives at the bright display of a family-owned cake shop that Yamaguchi's attention snaps back together. Cinder orange and sunny yellows glossing the window with advertisements of seasonal confectioneries, sales and promotions and a smattering of painted autumn leaves – he stares at it for a good minute. Just looking at the vibrancy instills a prologue tingle of sweetness within him, not to mention the childish giddiness he always gets when he spots the black chalk board sign, always scribbled with specials.

 

Even before Yamaguchi registers the jingle of the gold bell hung just above the doorway, the taste – the aroma – of cakes balloon in his lungs as he walks in. The brunet closes his eyes briefly, gifting himself a deep inhale right in the entrance. This shop always smells of baked sublimity and the subtle air of a back mountain cottage, the elderly woman keeping that fresh vase of wild flowers near the register. Not to mention the polished lacquer wood of the main display that Yamaguchi _has_ to run his palm over every time he visits. 

 

He strolls with a touch of haste, only a pit stop to where he needs to be in exactly seven minutes according to his phone. Orders four slices of cake – two strawberry, two pumpkin – and honors the friendly idle chit chat with the owner's granddaughter as she boxes his desserts complete with a festive seasonal bow.

 

_Yes, the usual. Exams coming up, of course he is, when doesn't he start cramming the coffee and cake during crunch time. Haha, I'd never hear the end of it, the large strawberries quell the beast. You're my savior. Of course, thank you, say hello to Maman for me._

 

With his purchase in hand, Yamaguchi gives his parting regards and heads back into the bustling public – this time taking the moment to let the chime ring through his ears. He fancies a wind chime in spring, but this jingle has charm too, adds a momentary lightness in his step. Grinning to no one, he makes for the meeting place, checking again for time. Three minutes, just enough – if not, his peace offering surely grants him amnesty.

 

He bought the ones with the biggest strawberries, after all. Automatic treaty for tardiness.

 

Luckily, two minutes and favorable cross walks lights bring him to the doors of the downtown coffee shop. Neat trim and chartreuse awnings welcome him, as does the burly voice that reminds him of a lumberjack. He steps in, immediately searches the various lush seats and around the tiny gas fireplace that serves as a cozy centerpiece.

 

Yamaguchi snags a chair with his foot in his distraction, stumbles a quick apology over his shoulder as he treads further in. Wisps of coffee beans litter his nostrils, earthy and rich, warming him instantly. There are few things that brush his senses with such familiarity – a taste of halcyon.

 

Coffee reminds the brunet of home, sometimes of early mornings, other times late nights. A particular strong brew, almost pungent to the senses, bold. Not just anyone can handle it, but that feeling of finishing the last dregs of dark-roast leaves a taste of accomplishment. Coffee reminds him of stubbornness, of goading chuckles, a button nose scrunching in distaste – coffee reminds Yamaguchi of –

 

“Tsukki!”

 

The chirpy greeting is all it takes for said blond to peek over the bridge of his glasses, amber regarding him momentarily before he shifts to attention with a gradual shift of his body. Yamaguchi grins, all teeth and glee before tossing his canvas bag on the hardwood floor next to the faux leather chair. He's so ready to throw himself into it, calling his name with the russet sheen and warmth which serves a radiating lure.

 

He plops down, chill-ached body crying in relief, and shakes out the stiffness in his hands before blowing an exaggerated gust into his palms. Yamguchi underestimated the weather when he left earlier, and now it leaves his poor hands a victim to his forgetful nature.

 

“You left your gloves at home again, didn't you?” comes the sudden quip, Tsukishima eyeing him with a raised brow. The tone is short, but he long knows that the blond simply states the obvious for whatever humorous purposes – something he gets a kick out of himself plenty, except when on the receiving end and dealing with what is probably ten degrees colder than comfortable.

 

Yamaguchi, mid-inhale with chipmunk cheeks, blows a noisy raspberry, “That weather lady isn't always right you know. It feels like a paradise for penguins out there.”

 

Tsukishima snorts, fingering his cell on the table – holds it up for him to see.

 

“It's three degrees warmer than what the station said this morning, just going to throw that out there.”

 

“I'm gonna throw _you_ out there if you don't shush and let me suffer in my internal tundra,” Yamaguchi mutters, setting the cake on the table with a sniff. The brunet ignores the snicker from his best friend, wiggles his head with mock attitude while fetching his study materials. Sometimes he just wants to shake that boy for his raunchy humor at his poor frigid expense, even if Tsukishima doesn't mean anything by it.

 

Well, not a lot.

 

Yamaguchi sighs, taking a spare moment to admire the pine branches lining the windows when taking a short, final stretch. A truly relaxing cabin interior décor that he appreciates.

 

His companion falls quiet, already back in his own world, reading material looking all too wordy and complicated for his personal taste. The thought vanishes when Tsukishima wordlessly slides a tall cup across the table. Yamaguchi follows the trails of steam, a bewitched snake to the flute, and snatches the drink – basks in the warmth seeping into his palms.

 

Aroma steaming with spices and fruit, the brunet bites down the grin splitting his face, “How embarrassing was it to order this for me?” He takes the cautious sip, relishing in the flavor of apple and cream. His absolute favorite drink from this cafe, and his best friend bought it for him, extra whipped and all. Yamaguchi wriggles in his seat, enjoying the scent of cinnamon.

 

He watches Tsukishima scrunch his nose just a touch, a habit the blond procured in high school when he stepped up to the captain plate senior year and had to somewhat curb those snarky tendencies. Charming in a way, Yamaguchi decides, absently tapping a pair of fingers on the table.

 

“It wasn't,” the blond finally replies, not removing his gaze from the notes he messily scribbles. He shakes the loose bangs from his fringe, as if to cover his concentration-curled brows.

 

Unable to resist the urge to poke at his best friend, Yamaguchi smiles, “Oh yes. Mr Tall, Blond and Stoic comes along – 'Ah yeah, can I get an apple-cinnamon cream cider? Whipped, extra whip, those crunchy cinnamon things too.' Very you, Tsukki.”

 

Finally, Tsukishima looks up, deadpan, “I bought my own coffee too, you know.” Gestures to it with a sarcastic sweep of his hand, eliciting giggles from the opposite party. Yamaguchi straightens, putting on as serious of a face as possible despite the trembling of his chin.

 

“Large coffee, one sugar, shot of espresso. Coffee bomb. Extra bold, gimme that shit.”

 

“Yamaguchi.” said brunet chortles gleefully, tongue poking through teeth. Only in recent months did Yamaguchi discover the joys of being a teasing little brat, Tsukishima being his favorite target – half because he's the only one who gets away with it and half because seeing the blond try to remain unfazed flips his playful switch. Very hard, in fact, he can never resist a prod or seven.

 

And apparently he pressed that button too hard with the pensive stare he receives from over a brown coffee cap. It really only amuses him, but Yamaguchi still raises his hands in placation, waving them back and forth.

 

“Sorry, sorry, I can't pass up the opportunity. Forgiveth thine transgressions, mighty pillar of the Gods.”

 

The jolt that shakes Tsukishima's shoulders peels a silly warmth in Yamaguchi's stomach, the catching of a muffled snort and well hidden smirk inflating it like a blimp. The brunet realizes he really should concentrate more on his exam notes and not the little fragments of amusement in Tsukishima's expressions, but seeing his best friend quirk his jaw in an off hand attempt to not laugh is too enjoyable to pass up.

 

Even now Tsukishima remains a straight-laced guy, though more relaxed. He still gets irritated by overly energetic people, still laces his fingers when a bit uncomfortable, still a damn _huge_ fun-picker, but Yamaguchi feels like the blond has evolved in many senses outside his peculiarities. Maybe it's because he's been stubbornly dragging at Tsukishima's tail since they were children, but he likes to think he's on the receiving end of a potential soft side.

 

Something a little special, even.

 

For just a few short moments, Yamaguchi follows the route of his best friend's handwriting, noting the little scribble of what he guesses is a dinosaur eating that one professor Tsukishima loathes with all of his being and then some. His smile widens, a two finger rhythm dancing on the table top as he imagines his best friend sketching little lizards all over his notebook. How he'd probably spend more time perfecting the bone structures and leathery scales than paying any attention to the droll lecture.

 

It's a wonder to Yamaguchi that people think the blond doesn't have any charm, when he sees nothing but.

 

Taking another swig of his now taste-bud friendly drink, he picks up his pencil and begins to copy English notes to the first in a small stack of index cards.

 

He doesn't think twice when Tsukishima looks up at him for several moments just a while later.

 

* * *

 

By the time they both come home to their shared apartment, any whispers of comfort from hot beverages and licks of fireplace heat are long expired, all but sapped from his veins. Letting out an exhausted sigh – because very little work was accomplished, distractions abundant for reasons unknown to him – Yamaguchi slumps against the wall. He rubs his hand on the speckled white, wishing for the ability to somehow absorb warmth of any fashion to his icy limbs.

 

He largely ignores the shuffling behind him, passively bitter over the knowledge that his best friend lives as a walking furnace. Extremely tall and incredibly thin as it is, damn it his blood should circulate like pudding instead of being unaffected by the unusual borderline winter outside.

 

Chaffing his palms together, Yamaguchi tosses his head back to whine.

 

“You suck, Tsukki. So unfair with your – _aaack!!_ ” he leaps away with a yelp, hand slapping over the offended cold spot under his collar. One snort and an awkward trip over discarded shoes later, the brunet rounds on his offender, looking over his shoulder to where Tsukishima still lingers by the door. Eyes him like a kicked puppy because it wasn't like he was cold enough already.

 

“Just checking,” the blond blinks owlishly, demeanor mirroring Yamaguchi's back in the coffee shop – coquettish. He waves his outstretched fingers. “Must suck being a living ice cube; you can have the shower first.”

 

“You. Really. Suck~” he mutters at the giant traitor, glowering at his mischievous stare before whipping a slightly damp sock at his shin. Tsukishima dodges it, an innocent shrug making Yamaguchi want to smear those small, quirked eyebrows off his stupid face.

 

“What? I don't feel cold at all?” the blond smiles, mischief blowing into all out deviousness. Yamaguchi recognizes that tone, oh does he. He mentally takes back everything about Tsukki being charming; the giant reeks with trouble.

 

Yamaguchi swipes at the air, snuffing, “Just because you have burning coals for blood doesn't mean your fingers don't feel like mini icebergs!”

 

“Wouldn't icicles be the more sensible rebuttal?”

 

“...you shush that baby face of yours,” he blows, snapping his fingers together in a silencing motion.

 

“So polite for being this perturbed. Why not say 'Shut up Tsukki'?” Tsukishima teases, crossing his arms.

 

“That's your catchphrase, not mine,” the brunet leans down to snatch his sock back. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go use up all the hot water and drown in bliss.”

 

He ignores the light chuckles behind him and shoots for the bathroom, toes cold and arms littered with goosebumps. Runs the water at full blast, steam washing over his skin as he throws his clothes all over and dives in.

 

And he does take his godforsaken time, scrubbing his hair while practicing vocabulary, at times just standing under the spray and letting the water fall down the slimness of his body. After a while, calm comes over him. Not that he was ever angry, silly banter is something he's very used to with Tsukishima. More fun than anything.

 

Yet –

 

Yamaguchi leans against the tile wall, watching the swirls of soap circle the drain. Something's been off lately; he can't place it, but the mystery lingers with a haze of discomfort. The brunet wants to shove it off as exam jitters. Maybe too much sugar lately – he'll skip the extra whipped next time.

 

He only feels this way around Tsukki, though.

 

It doesn't make sense.

 

Some sort of light off in the distance lingering around a corner, leaving a funny taste in Yamaguchi's mouth. He scrubs his face hard to try and shake the tick, but he gives up in the end. Finishes and bumbles about to his bedroom to attempt distraction there. Exams should provide plenty, he hopes.

 

The chill returns half an hour into studying, and the feeling still remains. Rubbing his arms, the brunet curses every star in the sky for this eerie discontent. And the cold, that could stop any day now. He decides to go bother Tsukishima for a sweatshirt – they've all been collecting in the blond's room for a couple weeks now, somehow.

 

“Hey,” a gruff voice speaks, just behind him.

 

His stomach takes the opportunity to somersault, pencil dropping from twitched digits.

 

A string of chills shoots down Yamaguchi's spine, startled. He places a hand over his chest, looking back over his chair to regard his sudden guest. Blinks at the sweatshirt in his face, and the state of undress standing before him – nothing but a towel around thin hips and the glisten of shower water.

 

The blond steps to him, paying no mind to Yamaguchi's frozen state and deposits the thick shirt into his lap. Traces of oranges wander into his senses as Tsukishima leans over him, a hand bracing on the desk as he peeks at the vocab sheets spread about.

 

Yamaguchi doesn't – _can't_ move. Locked up, he swallows hard.

 

“You'd better not be planning another all nighter, Yamaguchi.”

 

He barely registers the words coming from his best friend's mouth, only stares blankly at the hand in front of him, the arm wet with water – smelling of sweetness and whiffs of aftershave. The brunet traces around the edges of each finger, every neatly trimmed nail with his eyes. He swallows a second time, unsure what's come over him but it settles so heavy in his stomach that it makes him ill.

 

“Yamaguchi.”

 

Finally, either from the concerned tone on his Tsukishima's lips, or the sheer force that he rips his own mental blanket down, Yamaguchi shakes from his daze. Lets out an awkward laugh and hugs the sweatshirt to his chest.

 

“Ahaha, sorry, Tsukki. Cold must be getting to me, don't know what's wrong with me,” he excuses, offering as much of a reassuring smile as he can to the amber eyes scrutinizing him. He doubts Tsukishima is looking too much into his weird spell – weird is his thing, thankfully. A little part of him hopes that he isn't being _too_ weird or worse, transparent.

 

“I was surprised to find the hot water still intact,” Tsukishima thankfully removes the arm caging Yamaguchi in, though that smell still brushes at his nostrils. “Here.”

 

He tries to shake it off, and ends up visibly shuddering much harder than planned when a pair of hands find home on his neck – warm palms shelling over his pores. Fingers resting soft on his throat, idly stroking as Tsukishima shifts behind him.

 

That gut-wrench ruptures, and coarse ripples slither around in Yamaguchi's stomach. He chokes on it, body unwillingly sagging in his seat as his best friend's touch adjusts just so – enough to relapse the queer feeling that's been crawling under his skin.

 

Squeezing his eyes shut and thankful that Tsukki can't see his oddball expression, the brunet mutters quietly, “I, um – Tsukki?” 

 

What exactly does he even want to say? Tsukishima won't have the answers to any of the confusion whirling around in his brain – or his belly. And he certainly wouldn't be able to explain why Yamaguchi feels the strong urge to both run very far away and curl back into the touch sliding off his shoulders all at once. 

 

Tsukishima crosses back to the door, looking at him quietly for a moment before speaking one last time, “As I said, don't stay up too late. You know you don't take exams well on little sleep.”

 

Yamaguchi nods weakly, lips pinching shut because there aren't any words coherent enough _not_ to rise some sort of suspicion. The blond tilts his head, a vague observation, and leaves – shutting the door behind him.

 

The brunet slumps instantly in his seat, throat still tight and flurries in his stomach, rampant. He slaps a hand over his face, a desperate wake up call of sorts. What the hell even was that?

 

Thinking about it is the last thing he desires right now. Chooses to instead scurry into the coziness of his sweatshirt, wrapping up in it and sitting quiet and nestled. 

 

Safe, alone. 

 

Scrolling over the contents of his desk, Yamaguchi twitches, spotting beads of water where his best friend's hand once was. His eyes find them, and stick to them. Counts them, circles the gleam reflected from his ceiling light, recounts each dot, then finally swipes them away in a fit. 

 

What _is_ this? 

 

He sits there, fists gripping the front of his sweatshirt tight. Olive eyes stare at the jumble of vocab words, unable to register the letters. Breath short, he clenches his teeth. Knows he won't be able to study anymore tonight.

 

And Yamaguchi frets, because all that spins in his mind is the hue of citrus and Tsukki and the outline of limber fingers. Those water drops. That sauna heat still smooth on his neck. A sleepy, but strict tone that reprimands – all too knowledgeable of the brunet's lesser habits.

 

The cotton under his fingertips offer no comfort, it only leads his vast circle of thoughts back around, each cycle adding more and more wonders.

 

The most prominent question hits him rather abruptly as he sinks back into his seat, and soon the rest all clear away, leaving just this one floating image to fasten its hold on him.

 

Yamaguchi hugs himself just a bit tighter.

 

Since when did he start buying his sweatshirts one size bigger?

 

* * *

 

The next morning Yamaguchi wakes to the very familiar chipped paint of his ceiling. Intimately familiar with it from the seventeen times he awoke, only to grumble and stare at the oppressive white and the red taunt of his clock. Turning to his side, he snuggles further under his blankets and the sweatshirt wrapped warm around him.

 

As soon as he takes that deep morning inhale, the faint aroma of fruit permeates and he's up within seconds – awake in an instant. He stares down into his lap, eyeing the floppy ends of his too big sleeves, scandalized. The brunet doesn't care to lift them to his face, smell them to confirm what is likely that damned funk he was surfing under last night.

 

All of yesterday.

 

Grumbling, Yamaguchi throws his hands up in a tantrum, shaking in stubborn tiffs just to get that weird what-have-you out of his system. He doesn't need this right now, nor does he want it.

 

And he's worn these shared sweatshirts all the time, there's nothing odd about making lifestyle and comfort easier for the both of them. That's what best friends do. That's all.

 

“So go away, whatever you are,” Yamaguchi sighs. “I'll eat an orange in spite, so help me.”

 

So help him.

 

Breakfast and the lack of studying he did the night prior does give Yamaguchi ample distraction. Unfortunately so does Tsukishima, who sits across from him, decimating a small jar of strawberry jam as he browses his laptop.

 

The brunet catches the flickering light in his glasses a moment, then drags himself down to the horrifying reality that is his English exam today. And the pages of notes to go over, and note cards. The fact that he's probably spending more time watching each spoonful of plum red spread over fluffy croissants and that odd hum coming from thin lips fills him with a foreboding dread.

 

Yamaguchi clears his throat, shifting his foot to nudge at that invisible presence gnawing playfully – a pesky kitten of thoughts at his ankles – and flips to the next page of his work without even reading it. Forget the lack of sleep under his belt, he keeps smelling that lethal combo of odors coming from his best friend which honestly should be so routine that water would smell more potent. His brain floats all over the place – baffling would be an understatement.

 

Tsukishima's always been a cleanly guy. He also always does that thing where he has more jam than bread, and swipes his thumb across his mouth.

 

Yamaguchi taps insistently at the table, confusion and tightness bloating his empty stomach.

 

Too much staring happening to be healthy, the brunet frowns, adjusting his collar to relieve some of this ridiculous awkward rot in his stomach. Tap, tap, taps until his best friend looks up mid-chew, brows raised. 

 

“Either I've grown a second head, or you're floating in one of your clouds again. What are you doing?” the blond questions suddenly after swallowing his food. He then blinks and closes the lid of his computer to give full attention to the antics across the table.

 

Automatically shaking his head, Yamaguchi stills, “Ah?? No, no. I'm just kinda out of it. Pass the jam, before you eat it all.”

 

Tsukishima complies, plucking up the nearly empty mason and reaches across the table. Stops just short and eyes him with narrowed amber – doing a quick up and down before glowering.

 

“You stayed up too late, didn't you?” he swirls the jam out of Yamaguchi's waving hands.

 

“No.”

 

Technically not a lie.

 

He hates the way his focus lands right on Tsukishima's mouth when he speaks again.

 

“Why are you so bent out of shape for this exam? Since when have _you_ ever scored less than a 95?”

 

Yamaguchi ropes the topic in like a life line, running with it at full speed – wishing his brain would follow suite and stop with the Tsukki spotlight.

 

When the blond finally surrenders the jar, Yamaguchi internally cries in relief that he has something else to lock onto. Dallies and spreads the sweet smelling strawberries over toast and finds any reason not to look back up.

 

Counting twenty-seven seeds in the spread doesn't last as long as he wants it to.

 

“Tsukki, you don't understand. English sometimes – a lot of times – makes absolutely zero sense,” he blurts before shoving his mouth full with tastiness.

 

“To be honest, you're the one not making sense,” comes the rebuttal, and he has no choice but to snap up at that. As if his chest is on open display, his heart pounds, wonders if Tsukishima sees through him and his erratic behavior. He grimaces, hiding his gulp with food. This is not the best time for his best friend to be doing one of his 'see through the weird' moments.

 

He gracefully asks Tsukishima to restrain himself from looking too hard. Mentally, he can't bring himself to speak – only squeaks awkwardly.

 

Yamaguchi doesn't even know what the hell he's doing, it's not fair if Tsukki does.

 

Not fair at all.

 

“I've never seen you so worked up over exams. English is your best subject.”

 

Yamaguchi slumps in his chair.

 

Jesus, that's what he's talking about? Thank god.

 

He rubs his face, act all too easy to put on. Those little butterflies need to take a back seat for five minutes.

 

“You wouldn't believe some of the things I'm learning. Did you know that there's actually a conjugation of _four_ words,” he rambles well, each word spilling out further buries the weirdness quietly rising in him. It's easy to distract when he focuses on school, so that's what he clings to. Not the little snort from his best friend, not the tilt in his head – an amused gesture. Not that twitch of a gentle smile.

 

“Yeah, and now we're really getting into the heavy sentence structures for more advanced reporting and journalism, which isn't my field, but I figure I better learn what I can with my scholarships.”

 

“Which is exactly why it's unnecessary for you to worry,” Tsukishima waves his hand before resting his chin on a palm. “You study hard. You apparently still do wheelies in your brain over everything. You work harder than most college students, stop fretting; You're _much_ better in English than I even am.”

 

Yamaguchi stops everything, distractions crashing to a jerking halt. The butterflies are on fire.

 

“Ah,” the brunet stutters, scratches at his wrist. “C-come on, Tsukki. You're praising me too much. You're much better at literally everything else, you know? You're studying for anthropology and all that – so much cooler.”

 

Tsukishima grins wryly, “All knowledge nets you is higher expectations and fancier named jobs, it's nothing to really scoff at.”

 

“ _Tsukki_ –“ he puffs, snatching the jam before the blond can grab it. He glares, scrunches his nose and makes a face when the brunet snuffs at him. “Don't say that about yourself. No sweets for you!”

 

“Then don't downplay your language proficiency, it's fair play,” Tsukishima shrugs, biting into his croissant. “I didn't want it back anyway.”

 

“Yes you did~” the brunet teases the object, smiles at the flat stare that looks over the crumbs and golden brown curve of his breakfast pastry.

 

His stomach bubbles – he knows it's not from hunger – and decides that the bizarre quiver in his belly has overstayed its welcome. With a tiny clatter, Yamaguchi returns the jam to its loving owner and collects his dishes and retreats into the safety of the kitchen. Already much aware of how ridiculous he looked when bolting for dear life away from his best friend, the brunet leans over the counter. 

 

Tsukishima looked a little less amusing and a little more – 

 

Cute? Attractive? Endearing? 

 

Compliments aside, Yamaguchi can't wrap his head around why Tsukki pokes at the very wrong areas of him. He used to find their antics funny, but he can't help but think back to how all these little nuances are leaning into something not so brotherly. As if they're –

 

Yamaguchi places a hand over his heart, wills that stampede to a standstill. Breathing a moment, he moseys to the sink to wash his dishes.

 

And when he inhales the fresh smell of citrus dish soap, water running on full blast, he digs fingers into his weary eyes and lets out a distressed groan.

 

* * *

 

For once, Yamaguchi is extremely grateful for his class exams.

 

The very moment he walks into the room, his field of vision expands and his eyes finally dance upon familiar sights that don't leave his brain whirling in a confused rage. He greets the front row trio of girls, watching them scurry over notes and scribble little things here or there as he passes. The dark under their eyes translate to late night studying – something he wishes he could relate to, but he lacks the worry that really should be taking home in his mind right about now.

 

A sense of clarity, this classroom gives him. He appreciates it, breathes in deeply as he takes his seat towards the back. He flips through his ringlet of note cards, chewing on a nail as he crams last minute details and pieces of interest.

 

He doesn't think about that weird feeling.

 

It's like it should be.

 

His exam comes and goes, of course he knows all the answers. Pen fast as he writes, sounds off syllables in his head, sing song in his extensive knowledge and comfortable setting. He's always been a worrier before exams, but during them he often comes with a sense like when he used to play volleyball – especially during the golden age of senior year. He's in his court, his strong place, and he concentrates much better.

 

He's not thinking about anything else.

 

He's not.

 

Yamaguchi finishes his two classes quicker than preferred, wanders down the hall with a forced laziness. He frowns, itching at his pocket where his cell phone rests. It buzzed twice during his second class, and checking it now feels like a time bomb waiting to detonate. Checking it chances him being reminded of a certain subject he'd like to keep at the distant pier for now.

 

Because he's _not_ thinking about Tsukki.

 

He takes it out, a look of disinterest on his face – because who knows what kind of face he'd make otherwise – and flips it open. Two messages, as guessed.

 

To his glee, the first message is from Yachi. He almost jumps with giddiness for his shorter blonde bestie, thanking her and the heavens for this interruption. He snorts immediately, reading the cute emotes and silly story about how Hinata and Kageyama – her two equally dorky boyfriends – were fighting over shaving cream at the store. Apparently they came across Tanaka and his sister, convinced the two that one is only a true adult if you shave. Yamaguchi laughs as he crosses the lobby, covering his mouth from her tale. Snickers at her huffy little cat face at the end because 'Boys really are weird sometimes.' and 'They've had baby faces since forever, how did they fall for this?' and 'I still love them, it's cute, ya know? Hope you're doing well Ta-kun~ <3”

 

He wants to say he's doing well, types out a short reply while shoving out of the front doors with his shoulder. The brunet thanks Yachi for that brilliant little detract from his overall stasis.

 

He then opens the next message, and his breath catches. Catches so fast he's already sick of the constant state of whiplash inside him, strangled with wire.

 

Sent literally minutes after his second class started.

 

_Exam wasn't a problem, I bet?_  
_Meet you at the gate.  
_ _T –_

 

Yamaguchi's vision whips up. Lo and behold, Tsukishima stands at the entrance, paying attention to some mystery space in the distance while people pass.

 

The brunet slaps himself just as quickly.

 

This is _normal._

 

They always walk home together. They're _always together_.

 

Why is this so foreign? Why does his entire person sit on an unstable pillar of sand, unbalanced and unsettled?

 

Those amber eyes direct to him moments after the door closes behind him. As if the blond holds a sixth sense, spots him and moves from his perch on the brick entrance. Quirks his head in that way that ignites the light in his stomach with the speed of a single heartbeat. Gripped by the firm tug in his chest,Yamaguchi blindly descends the stairs and merges with Tsukishima – walking through the gates and down the sidewalk.

 

“Your exam?”

 

“Not a problem...” Yamaguchi stares straight ahead, offers the mechanical answer.

 

This, though, this is a problem.

 

“This probably deserves an 'I told you so” moment, but I'll spare you this time,” Tsukishima prods, leaning down to chuckle, shows a cloy expression.

 

Yamaguchi notices the subtle bounce in his best friend's bangs, slightly longer than usual. He zooms in on thin fingers soon curling flaxen locks behind an ear, Tsukishima skidding a rock out of his path. That particular sway of his arms, his head bobbing imperceptibly to some tune while pinching his lips in concentration – or lack there of. It's always a toss up with Tsukki.

 

Little ticks Yamaguchi thinks he's noticed a thousand times over, but somehow it's fresh to him. He tries to catch the former regularity of even this simple walk and grasps at straws instead.

 

Best friends are like this all the time – they know the stupid little things. Notice the tiniest details. That's just how it works when you spend half your life practically glued to their side, getting to see them in ways no one else does. That special place a best friend receives; it's what they have. What Yamaguchi loves about his relationship with Tsukishima, years and years of slowly growing through each of their hardships and finally cementing an equally enjoyable companionship.

 

It's completely natural for him to be privy to these things, to see parts of Tsukishima no one else would look twice at. His incorrigible love for strawberry things – but absolute hatred for strawberry milk because it's an evil impostor to the delicious fruit – and his nasty glare that dampens hilariously thanks to the pout he's acquired over the last year or so. The brunet doesn't think the giant blond notices, but he'll never tell.

 

And not even thinking about quirks, toothpaste brands, clothing sizes, the number of plays on his favorite song – they've been together since kids. The natural order.

 

Over and over, Yamaguchi justifies absolutely everything he knows. Has to in order to keep some semblance of normalcy. The mantra in his head; he repeats it through their gradual walk. The idea that parts of this, pieces of _them_ aren't exactly the same shakes him at the foundations. His instinct tells him to cling to the shreds, because he fought so hard to be this close to the person he cherishes.

 

It'd be a world he loses.

 

Tsukishima gives him a look. He's drifting off again.

 

Yamaguchi pleads with himself not to spring on some weird tantrum until he's in the safety of his room. He can scream into his pillow later, he promises himself. Pinky swears when his best friend's expression blossoms into brows furrowed in amusement and a mouth that curls just enough to be a teasing smile.

 

_Cute._

 

He immediately digs the heel of his shoe into his big toe, biting out a yelp through tight lips.

 

“And what was that?” the tone matches the look, damn it all.

 

“Itch.”

 

Brain itch, foot itch – still an itch. Semantics.

 

Yamaguchi trudges ahead before the blond can get a word out edgewise. He kicks out the distinct urge to run for the hills too, because his storm of mental pages – all painfully bold and about Tsukki – waver out of control with increasing violence.

 

The silence between them would be agonizing, but the light humming that joins them makes this walk outright torturous. Tsukishima's voice sounds of gravel, but fine coarse, enjoyable to the ears. Yamaguchi's heard it plenty of times, all times of the day. He's been doing this since he was ten, one of the most common within his best friend's book of quirks.

 

The most common, and apparently the most gut-wrenching now.

 

Again he finds himself resisting the need to escape. His heart flutters way too much, palms starting to sweat.

 

What can he do?

 

“Yamaguchi.”

 

“Yes!” he spins, answering the roll call no one asked for. Clears his throat, doesn't even trust his vocals anymore. “What's up?”

 

“I'm heading this way, to work,” Tsukishima points to the right, down into the shopping district at the bottom of a steep road. “Try to keep your head on your shoulders. No clouds, look both ways when you cross the road? Don't talk to any strangers.”

 

“Yes, mother~” Yamaguchi waves him off, unable to help the twinge of a smile coming to his lips. He looks off, down into the beginning dredges of busy city – crosswalks and telephone lines galore in the late afternoon. He almost feels himself calm, almost, until fingers come brushing at his ears.

 

The familiar shivers break out instantly, body stuck as he meets the close, concentrated stare of his best friend. He's right in his face, inches away, hands fiddling with his ears, tucking dark tresses away before placing little buds in. The brunet shudders as fingertips barely breeze down his neck – he's shaken awake by the touch. Tsukishima places something in his palm, and backs away.

 

That scent is back. Spicy, sweet, amber. His eyes were right there. Right _here._

 

Yamaguchi awkwardly searches the item in hand – an mp3 player.

 

“Tanaka sent me some new music the other night. Not exactly my taste, but surely it's yours. Give it a listen. Later.”

 

He doesn't move. Feet anchored to the ground until Tsukishima's long out of sight. Eyes never moving from the tall, blurring image disappearing down the slope.

 

_His best friend._

 

Robotic, he presses play on the screen, and gentle beats come to life in his ears. Dancing tunes, crisp and light. It's true, this is something he fancies a lot. Rests his soul at times, makes it playful in others.

 

The entire walk home, though, Yamaguchi feels neither. With the exception of his stomach, where butterflies seem to play once again.

 

* * *

 

Getting home, the brunet throws himself to his bed, shoes still on twittering feet. The sweatshirt he left earlier that morning leers at him from the edge of his mattress – he kicks it before any funny ideas root into his brain. His thoughts are lush enough right now, processing more would result in total meltdown. It very well might ooze out of his ears pretty soon, and as curious of a scenario that is, Yamaguchi wants to keep as much of his frantic brain in his skull.

 

Fiddling with the string of Tsukishima's ear buds, the brunet listens to the light beat filtering through the speakers. Of course, his best friend was right on the money, this music is what he loves most – and even offers the tiniest filament of stability in his otherwise collapsing state of mind.

 

It all honestly bothers him – why after so many years of battling against a wall of ice and a heart locked in an impenetrable cage, that there is yet another obstacle in their friendship. Something that might very well take Tsukki away from him if he places the name that's trying to crawl out from under his tongue.

 

This word frightens him, a sticky film much too stubborn to erase.

 

The particularly frustrating part of this whole affair, the fact that leaves Yamaguchi wanting to scream into his pillow in the first place, is that nothing has changed between them. It's not as if Tsukishima turned around one day and was a completely different person. The brunet's _been_ there the entire time, witnessing the slow re-unlocking of the Tsukki that he met all those years ago. He's savvy when it comes to his best friend, almost too much so now that these prickles of mind game keep pressing into his skull.

 

So why now? When? What triggered it?

 

Why can't he just see things like they used to be? When his stomach didn't dance and his heart didn't jump into his throat the moment a fragment smile appears on Tsukishima's face. Or when he plays with his glasses, concentrating on his article reading-- fingers sometimes distracted by wily curls.

 

Maybe's he's losing his mind, or stressed. A phase could be possible too, like when he was in his second year of high school and grew his hair out. That was an experience, maybe this is too. Something that will pass eventually if he just reminds himself enough just how nice his life is now.

 

Then again, that phase before was due to volleyball and a weird rebellion to his lack of growing, not a certain six-foot-four blond that makes his heart creak and rattle.

 

Yamaguchi only hopes Tsukki tags all of this off as his typical up-in-the-clouds behavior. That he doesn't catch wind of even the smallest proverbial tip of the iceberg that is his wanton behavior. If he has, at least he hasn't reacted to it, but the uncertainty of it raises all of Yamaguchi's hackles and keeps them snarling in perpetual motion. Much too nervous around Tsukishima now, the incredible sense of frustration sets in.

 

And more than anything, he carries exhaustion with him everywhere he goes, but anything to bury whatever this is, right?

 

He snorts at himself, knowing just how the dirt he kicks over the mound of his feelings decreases with each passing minute, leaving his heart to palpitate with reckless abandon to an unending metronome. No solace, only a blindingly colorful array of unclear state of mind for his best friend.

 

Waiting to burst, brim with punctual force.

 

Yamaguchi yanks out the buds, impatient with his own brain looping vicariously in some high-stake derby race. He sits up, stares at the door for several moments. Turmoil resting in his bones, the brunet gets up, pads on hesitant feet to his best friend's room.

 

He realizes with the grab of the doorknob just how sweaty his palm is.

 

Just turning it disturbs what little calm he has left, leaves him walking into a room potent with what should be respite but riddles him with a hard lump in the gut. Being here should show him how okay everything still is, how this isn't any different than before.

 

That _he_ isn't any different.

 

He enters slowly, olive eyes scanning the area of the room, from corner to corner. Holding his chest, Yamaguchi futilely tries to hush it to sleep – cease that impregnable beating for more than thirty seconds. His heart truly possesses a mind of its own as of late, a rebellious child with endless energy to shove onto him. The brunet rubs at his shirt as he inches about, somehow discovering everything for the first time despite being in here almost every single day.

 

He takes a breath – shallow, forced.

 

Yamaguchi pauses at the desk, the closest piece near him, all neatly arranged with notebooks and graphing tools and writing utensils. He digs his toes into the carpet, the fibers under his soles soft and worn in from the chair wheels and age. Browsing the smooth wooden surface under his journeying fingertips, the brunet comes across a tall cup filled with old-fashioned pencils. A pencil sharpener sits nearby, a bulky dinosaur head. He scoots it with a finger, sees little spots of green rubbed away and the container filled tight with pencil shavings.

 

It was a gift from him years ago, this little trinket, one he's never seen out before – in use. He didn't even know Tsukki kept it, let alone enough to have it brimming with flecks. Yamaguchi can't help the tug at his lips, catches himself and tips it over with a gentle huff.

 

Turning around and resting against the edge, he shakes himself from his spell and looks across to the closet. A closed space lined with many sweatshirts and sweaters neatly hanging in a single row. He recognizes many, but not all, as his. Also sees the majority are the same size, some new, few old. They probably smell like Tsukishima too, like the faint odor of this room – a cognac of fragrant cologne and ripe fruit.

 

He refuses to confirm that suspicion. Even the thought jostles the dormant thumping in his chest.

 

Instead he meanders to the lone bookshelf sitting at the edge of the blond's bed, tall and slightly worn. Even here, there's many shared books – his and Tsukki's – random novellas and textbooks. It's unreal how he never noticed before, just how intertwined they are. How easily they sway back and forth, moving around each other and exchanging belongings without a second thought.

 

Is this really the closeness of best friends? Truly? Or is he so determined to convince himself of that because he's much too afraid of the other possibility?

 

Of his world changing much too quickly, or losing it entirely.

 

Yamaguchi shakes the crude idea away, explores the shelves, tracing the age lines of perfectly cut wood just as much as he reads the titles of the various hardcovers. Mixed within the collection, sit three picture frames all arranged on different levels. The brunet fingers the sheen of the top most frame. Black matte smooth under his touch, glass perfect and clean – two elementary children with matching backpacks stare back at him, beaming straight at the camera.

 

It's them; Yamaguchi smiles, reminiscent of their early relationship, simple times.

 

How he misses those innocent days, even volleyball was a new wonder and his admiration carried him full throttle along his best friend's side. A clean palette ready for him to paint with excitement and fun, sharing his colors with a new companion.

 

The second photo holds a smaller image of Tsukishima and his older brother – just after high school graduation. Yamaguchi remembers it well, he took the picture after all, and the embarrassed scowl on the blond's face rouses a fond smile to the surface. It gives him a mirth of comfort, familiarity. Even pride nestles in his shoulders, they rise as Yamaguchi sighs, huffs with humor at the habitual scrunch in Tsukki's nose, the pink in his cheeks. That photo truly a wonderful capture of his more open nature, even if he always looks a bit grumpy.

 

He finds himself staring for many moments, realizes just how rapidly his heart leaps. He moves away, two steps, then a third – gulps the gross knot fighting up his throat.

 

Why does this not feel right?

 

Yamaguchi tilts back, eyes roaming the ceiling in relapse frustration. This room shouldn't be unnatural. This should be normal, simple, but it's not – it's not because as much as this screams of their closeness, he's realizing that he wants something else. Everything inside his chaotic mess of a body, ever since that odd catalyst days before, keeps shouting at him. What it wants, what he wants.

 

What does he want?

 

The brunet drums at the shelf, fingers laced with unrest as his mind races. Speeding down a slippery slope, unable to stop. God, he needs it to stop, at least slow down. Let him process something, anything.

 

He sighs, letting his vision fall to the floor, but an edge of color snags his peripheral, way on the very top of Tsukishima's bookshelf. Rising to the tip of his toes – the shelf begrudgingly taller than him – Yamaguchi spots another photo set. A pair of images in a twin frame.

 

Quivering, he plucks it down.

 

The first of twins is from their first year – the height of their victory at nationals – where the entire team stands proud in a group, showing both exuberance and silliness in one shot. They're all waddling about, Hinata about to fall over, Kageyama shouting and Yachi trying to catch him. The third year parents appear brim with embarrassment, with Asahi next to them laughing and covering his face at the same time – not to mention the enthusiastic quintuplet second years leaping in the back ground all in tandem.

 

And then, there's Tsukishima and himself, standing to the left. Yamaguchi curls away from the group, trying to stay away from the carnage, while the blond remains largely unfazed. He looks...peaceful almost. The brunet can tell by the way those normally furrowed brows remain lax, frown less obvious. That day was the start of when Tsukki's world truly opened up again, when the two of them became closer – the transition so seamless back then, but it couldn't be more glaring now. Second year brought out the prequel strings of their now mutual teasing. The early morning practices together, idle chit chat instead of silence among lightly playing music in Tsukishima's headphones. When Tsukki used to go to him, find him for lunch and wait for him to follow instead of treading off ahead.

 

When they felt true companionship, became best friends.

 

But, looking now, Yamaguchi feels that tickle. He wants something.

 

The second photo, he's almost too afraid to look at it. Nostalgia working against him somehow, the memories leave a kink in his stomach. What could possibly flourish from the last one? Squinting, he peeks at it, blinks and takes a full look because this one is completely unfamiliar to him.

 

It's solely the pair of them, this time high school graduation again. Yamaguchi smiles in the image, the two of them walking toward what he thinks is their fellow first years. His arm is draped across Tsukishima's shoulders, pulling him down as he smiles with glee. The blond himself looks pink in the face, but a serene expression leaks through.

 

The brunet fingers the edge of the photo, face warm. His best friend looks _happy_ in this picture, even with Yamaguchi almost strangling him with enthusiasm and choke hold alike. He can't help but stare, enchanted. He's never seen this look before, close, but never this blithely open. How did he miss it years ago? Brushing the glass, his thoughts take a sharp turn as olive eyes follow around the silhouette of his best friend in the image.

 

He wonders what made him smile like that, almost carefree. If he's ever roused such a thing – been the reason. As fragile looking at that gentle curve of mouth appears, like it will disappear if he watches too long, Yamaguchi can't look away. Almost as if he wants to touch it, feel the warmth emanating through.

 

The brunet brushes along the glass, tracing the image's lips.

 

How does it feel?

 

The raging wind in his mind drops to the ground, a sudden standstill that leaves Yamaguchi flinching as realization hits and he yanks his hand away – scathed. He reels back, lungs gasping as he fumbles to put the frame back on top of the shelf. It tips over, landing on the face, but he abandons it in favor of stepping farther away. Clenching his shirt with a desperate fist, the brunet bows over, shaking.

 

What is he doing?

 

_What does he want?_

 

All these questions, no answers in sight.

 

“Hey,” a voice delves – out of nowhere – through his frozen senses. Yamaguchi heaves, whips around to come face to face with the very man whose face he just defiled.

 

“T-Tsukki...” he stammers, backing away in alarm.

 

The blond follows, hand reaching with a brisk agility that startles him – Yamaguchi hits the shelf with a grunt. Tsukishima lifts a hand, index and thumb pinching a lock of brown hair, tugging softly before knuckles fall down the flush of the brunet's cheek. It circles to the back of his head moments later as his best friend closes in, mouth uplifting in a _very_ familiar smile.

 

Yamaguchi stands paralyzed, cement at his feet as amber eyes pierce him – infiltrate his mind and his sights and his senses. His frantic space. Trapped and transfixed on the sensation of digits cradling his nape, he helplessly sways forward.

 

Tsukishima parts his lips, lashes low, “I know what you want, Yamaguchi.”

 

Then lips are on him, claiming his own with fever. Yamaguchi tilts into him, hum climbing up and hands fallen at his sides. His chest bursts, chaos and thunder ripping him alive and seizing each and every nerve. A dam broken, the chorus of his haphazard mind singing at full volume. He finds it impossible to move, warmth grazing against him, breath washing briefly over his nose. Lush touches on his nape, teasing his hair – urging him closer. 

 

The blond parts from him in mere seconds, gaze tripping up what little bones Yamaguchi has left in his legs – hand feathering over goose-pimpled skin before it's gone.

 

“ _Tsukki_ ,” he breathes, closing his eyes. 

 

“Yeah? What is it?”

 

Olive snaps open, wood and books greet his view. He pivots in time to see Tsukishima setting his bag down, gaze questioning.

 

_Oh my god._

 

Yamaguchi manages to collect himself, if only momentarily, and thanks the brain that tears down the tracks as uncharted speeds for it's rare time of cooperation.

 

“Oh! Sorry, I was just looking for a book I needed. Mumbling to myself, that's all,” he snatches a book at random as he babbles. “Found it though, so...yeah. Um, you're home already?”

 

“It is after five. I have rice cooking –“  
“Great! Great, let me check my work quick and I'll be out to help with dinner.”

 

He veers towards his escape, jolts when his best friend remains immobile in the doorway.

 

“Are...you okay?” the blond asks, voice low.

 

The same tone as before, a mirror of his phantom.

 

Thwarted in his attempt to leave without trouble, Yamaguchi nods to the floor – unable to look Tsukishima in the face. He can't bring himself to, much too knowing of where his eyes will go, magnetism surely to pull him there. He nods again, smiling at his feet and rounds his towering obstacle without crashing into him.

 

“Yep! I'm fine, just gotta finish my homework,” he chirps, slipping away the second Tsukishima moves.

 

His stride quickens once he enters the hall, all but makes a mad dash to his room across the hall and some feet away. Slips into his room and restrains himself with every twitching muscle not to slam the door shut in a panic. Then, chest pounding, he slumps against the wood. Laughs as the calm never comes, only that rhythmic drum between his ribs.

 

The brunet peers down at the book in his hand – snorts pathetically when he notes by the cover that it's an elementary level English textbook – and taps his skull back. His voice drips with the remnants of hollow noise for a few seconds before falling completely silent.

 

And then he lets the item drop from his grip, landing on the floor in a fleeting ruffle of pages, puts a hand to his mouth.

 

They throb, his lips, and sizzle with heat under the pads of his fingers. Feels the pulse hiding in his bottom lip, and it's then the brunet finally allows himself to embrace the cadence of his spiraling brain.

 

Yamaguchi no longer denies it. There is a name to place on these feelings of his, obvious and bold and heart-rending.

 

He shuts his eyes, and lets out a weak sigh.

 

“ _Oh no_.”

 

* * *

 

“I'm sorry for calling out of the blue, but I need some advice...”

 

“Ta-kun, you know I love hearing from you.”

 

Yamaguchi hears the soft reprimand in his small friend's voice over the receiver.

 

“I'm just going over some last minute details on my design project; I have all the time in the world, just for you.”

 

The brunet sighs, twirls the pen in his hand repeatedly until it flips gracelessly from his grip to the floor, “Thanks, Ya-chan.”

 

The relief, despite his knowing that she would easily offer an ear to his strife sends a tiny wave of comfort through his body, something he hasn't experienced in a long while. He's too on edge these last couple weeks since _that_ incident, and his mind only flashes to the many, many repeats of said moment – times where he almost drove himself insane.

 

He almost questions why he didn't call his other best friend earlier. Almost.

 

“So, what's up?”

 

Yamaguchi shifts his cell phone to the opposite ear, plucking another pen from the case on his desk and restarts his idle distraction once more.

 

“Okay, so, I'm a mess."  
“Got any context to go with that claim?”

 

Not even close.

 

“I...don't even know how to describe it, to be honest.”

 

Understatement of the god damn century.

 

“Try for something laconic, literature junkie.”

 

“ _Ya-chan_ ,” he whines, stomping his feet for effect even if she can't hear his tantrum.

 

“ _Ta-kun..._ ” Yachi mimics, voice light and playful as a tapping sound resonates along with her. Okay, so maybe she can hear it, he notes with half-amusement.

 

“I...might...like someone?”  
“Hmm?”

 

The brunet can already picture his small friend cupping her ear and leaning closer.

 

He sighs in defeat, “I like someone.”

 

“Okay, concise if not a bit vague.”  
“Like-like?”

 

“Now you sound like my kids,” she giggles, sounds like sunshine as usual. He definitely could use the lift right about now – days ago really.

 

“Daycare kids, or boyfriend kids?”

 

“Ahaha, could be either really. With all the band-aids we had to go through after that shaving incident, almost wanna lean towards option two. But don't tell Shouyo or Tobio I said that.”

 

“Lips zipped.” For some reason he follows with the gesture – he doesn't reason with his haphazard thoughts or actions much anymore, there's far too little excuses that don't point towards Mr. Tall, Blond and Stoic in some manner.

 

Might as well call him a lost cause now.

 

“Good. Now, let's try for something less vague, less elementary. Go!”

 

“ _Love._ I think I'm in love.”

 

Yachi promptly squeaks in his ear, “Awww, Ta-kun!”

 

“With Tsukki.”

 

A pause.

 

“I'm inclined to stick with my previous reaction, that's very sweet~”

 

“No, it's not. It's crazy. I'm crazy, very crazy,” he flails an arm for emphasis, this time not even questioning it. What he says is true. He may admit to the amour, but he never agreed to be reasonable about it.

 

“Are you about to break into song over there? You okay?”  
“Shush, tone down your Tsukki vibes – you've been skyping with him way too much.”  
“Hehe, is that jealousy I'm hearing?”

 

The answer isn't a solid no, that's for sure. Damn it.

 

“ _No_ , it's just that I can barely handle one Tsukki right now, let alone another mini one.”

 

The little blond scoffs, voice playing at a pout, “I'll pass over that quip about my height in favor of your plight.”

 

“That rhyme was adorable.”  
“Why thank you. Now, issue liking – sorry – _loving_ Kei-kun...why?”  
“You know...”  
“If I did, I wouldn't be asking, sweetheart.”

 

If she did, he wouldn't have to stumble over his words – too convenient unfortunately, some higher power has to muck his plans, huh?

 

“Ya-chan...”  
“Sorry, sorry. Toning down the vibes.”

 

Yamaguchi blows out an exhausted raspberry.

 

“I've...been...imagining things,” he mutters, palming his warm face. Rubs his cheek.

 

“Things like...” she prompts, voice wavering in pitch.

 

“Touching. Kissing...Stuff.”  
“Sex?”

 

The brunet gracelessly drops the phone to the floor, Yachi's alarmed vocals muffled as it lays face down on the carpet. Leaning over, he snatches it back, fingers clammy with nervousness. His mind pokes at him viciously, scolding for him being so easy to read.

 

Does that easy-read travel? God, he hopes not, otherwise he's well and truly fucked.

 

Royally screwed.

 

_Ahhhh._

 

Emotionally compromised – he side-winds from his squall of gutter thoughts, trying to rummage up a worthwhile reply to the very blunt and very true claim without sounding like the him that's losing his mind.

 

Which is, in fact, all of him.

 

Yachi, fortunately, saves the brunet the effort and beats him to the punch, “So that's a very firm yes.”

 

Yamaguchi groans at the lack of inquiry in her tone.

 

“I'm screwed, aren't I?”

 

“Well...”

 

“ _Figuratively_ ,” he corrects, mentally kicking the gutter for all its worth.

 

“Have you tried getting it out of your system at all?”

 

His stomach flips, “Wh –“

 

“Masturbating?”

 

“ _Ya-chan!!_ ” he hisses, as if the very word could be heard within a five mile radius. Or worse – telepathically transmitted to Tsukishima's headphones or –

 

“I hear you tapping your fingers, come back to earth Ta-kun.”

 

He stops, looking to where his hand indeed sits, tapping relentlessly on the surface of his desk. He didn't even realize the movement, pulls his hand away to his lap.

 

“Sorry, and no. I feel like I'd be a million times more obvious if I did. I would get too nervous...I drift too deeply when I think too much...why am I admitting this? Oh _god_.”

 

“You're scared you'd get caught,” she finishes, unfazed.

 

“Yeah.”  
“Your vivid imagination serves as an awfully lethal double-edged sword.”  
“And sharpest when I don't want it to be, believe me.”  
“Mmm...”

 

Yamaguchi listens to the smallest hint of noise through his ear, and allows himself a small smile despite his unease. It's a habit both of his blond best friends share – likely a long established habit born from days spent in company their third year, when Tsukishima was captain and Yachi the manager – an indication of genuine deep thought. The brunet soaks it up, gains a somewhat thin layer of calm for the long stream of seconds before Yachi speaks up again.

 

“May I offer my opinion, even if you may not like it?”

 

He swallows, making a small noise to go with the nod he can't help but produce.

 

“I don't think these feelings are bad – I actually honestly fail to see why you are so adamant on burying them.”

 

“Because we're best friends!”

 

“And why can't best friends happen into love?”

 

“You don't understand, Ya-chan. How much there is to lose, so much. Tsukki is so important to me, I'd be so...devastated if I lost him to something as fickle as my feelings. All those years of trying to get this close, of seeing him open up again and...loving –“ he chokes on the word. “ – volleyball again. I love...”

 

He sighs hard, “Yachi, I can't lose Tsukki. I can't ruin what we have.”

 

“Ta-kun...”

 

“Why did I have to have these feelings? Why now? We're so comfortable and he's open with me and I feel like I'm betraying all that and why couldn't I have just shut my –“

 

“ _Tadashi_.”

 

He clams up instantly, his verbal waterfall running dry at the whiplash transformation between melancholy and stern in Yachi's voice. Anger isn't a within her emotion range, but when she drops the cutesy nicknames, that's the only warning you'll get to cool it. The blonde definitely learned how to rally people into her pace with as little as a vocal switch – some she picked up from not one, but three years of captains during their high school years. Yachi carries a mighty repertoire of frightening tones for a woman so tiny and sweet; Yamaguchi knows better than to interrupt her now.

 

Imagining the flaring nova of her golden browns, he lays his cheek on the polished wood and listens to the brief inhale before a much gentler voice greets him.

 

“Listen to me, okay? I may not know Kei-kun as well as you do. I doubt anyone does, but I do know that he would _never_ act nor treat you differently if he found out. You are vastly underestimating your friendship if you think otherwise.”

 

“But Tsukki...he's...”

 

“Not _you_ , Ta-kun, never you.”

 

The brunet falls silent at the hint of finality in her tone. He breathes, scratches at a nick of the top of his desk. Thinks fondly of Yachi patting his head, because it's for certain she would in this instance, the all caring sweetheart she is.

 

“And most importantly, you should stop thinking your affections are a world-end scenario. So you guys are best friends, so what?” Tobio and Shouyo and I are too, and we three get along more than fine. And you and Kei-kun, you've got so much history in your book, that's an advantage!”

 

Yamaguchi laughs, a soft smile coming to his lips.

 

“That's...true.”

 

“Very true.” A touch of firm, nudging him.

 

“Haha, okay. Very true.”

 

“And if you don't want to tell Kei-kun now, don't, but please, _please_ don't deny yourself the feeling of being in love.”

 

His breath snags in his lungs, “Eh?”

 

“Indulge yourself. Dream of him – use that wonderfully colorful mind of yours to live in a dream until you're ready. Imagine what it could be like, practice the words in your head, let yourself dream of him kissing you.”

 

“Ya-chan...”  
“Anddd, do me, and yourself – mostly yourself – a favor and let it out?”  
“Are you actually telling me to masturbate?”

 

“Uh-huh. Yep. Go for it! Byah!” she hits something, a loud smacking sound filling his head.

 

“This is kinda weird coming from you, not gonna lie...”

 

“Oh honey, I'm ace, not celibate. Or naïve. Goodness, I read those cheesy romance novels too, you know.”

 

“Oh _god_ , I'm so glad I called you,” Yamaguchi blurts suddenly, meaning every word.

 

Yachi's light giggle is utterly contagious, he finds as his chest feels much less dense. Like maybe he can take on even a small portion of his fragmented, crazy heart.

 

“Good~”  
“Would coffee on my next visit suffice as payment?”  
“Much appreciated, but entirely unnecessary.”  
“Not even that caramel apple cream dream you like?”

 

“They _have_ that right now??” Child-like excitement drips in her voice, he can tell she's jiggling around in her chair.

 

“Don't eat the phone now,” he teases, shaking the ringing from his ear. “So, one uber large, sugar-infested caramel apple cream dream, extra caramel for my tiny bestie?”

 

“Buy me cake too for the two tiny comments, you brat.”  
“Done and done~”

 

They sit together in silence for a moment, their laughter slipping away into peaceful companionship.

 

Yamaguchi looks at the time over his shoulder, “Ahh, it's so late. I'm sorry I complained for so long.”

 

“It's fine, really, I'm about done with my work. Which is good, because boyfriends are going to be home from practice soon.”

 

“Alright, I'll let you go then.”  
“...you're gonna be okay, Ta-kun?”  
“Yeah, yeah I think so. I'll try what you mentioned...sort of. Thanks, Ya-chan.”  
“Of course.”

 

Just before saying his goodbyes and hanging up, Yamaguchi pauses. A small thought, something that's been blinking in the back of his mind as his fingers patter on the wood again.

 

“Hey, before you hang up – how did you know about the finger tapping thing?”  
“Hmm? You didn't know you do that?”  
“Not until now, I never noticed I guess.”  
“I suppose not. You only do it when you're neck deep in la-la-land.”  
“Oi...”

 

How rude.

 

Whoops, now he's channeling the Tsukki vibes.

 

“Aha, I'm just teasing. Kei-kun told me a long time ago. Like...high school long ago.”  
“Tsukki...did?”  
“Mhmm! Talk to you later, Ta-kun! Good luck!” she chirps happily before the call ends.

 

The brunet sets his phone down, props his elbows on the desk and rests on his laced hands. He lets out a long breath, listens to the skittering of his heart for a long while.

 

* * *

 

If there is one thing Yamaguchi regrets in these last two weeks – one thing at all over the many instances of embarrassed noises when caught staring or shaking himself loose from the nth daydream of his best friend crowding him against a wall and branding himself to his pink mouth – it's that he decided to even _flirt_ with the idea to think on his feelings.

 

What's there to think about, really?

 

He's gone for Tsukishima, this is common fact. He admitted it to Yachi, thinks it on a daily basis it's almost the morning anthem when he less-than-politely slams the snooze button on his clock. Sleep is for people who aren't perpetually drowning in a wave of feelings over blonds who exacerbate each individual heart beat with so much as a tilt of the head.

 

If his hissing emotions were only an iceberg before, they're certainly a mountain line of melting ice caps now. How Tsukishima remains oblivious is beyond him, but there's no way in hell Yamaguchi will not steal the advantage.

 

This is absolute hell, his poor brain a weapon of self-destruction.

 

“Yamaguchi, on the left!” a voice cuts through his mental chamber. His eyes flicker amid the small crowd of his fellow players – the middle of a recreation game of ragtag volleyball at their college gymnasium.

 

He effortlessly slides, toes creating a step off for him to stretch and catch his target with the underside of his wrist. Sends it up to his setter with a well placed twist, heft of the ball leaving a pleasant, distracting burn on his skin. He can take his eyes away from the tall form of his best friend across the net, even if for mere seconds.

 

Yamaguchi still finds it though, in his widespread peripheral – Tsukishima eyeing him through the glare of his athlete glasses, challenge in the relaxed hunch of his shoulders. Amber liquor flickering to the location of the ball, returns to him, observing with what he likely deems the biggest threat to his side of the court.

 

And when it comes time for the brunet to serve, that look burns into him and that mouth curls into a subtle grin that sends Yamaguchi's nerves screaming. Tsukishima's waiting for him, their teammates around them shouting because they _know_ how unpredictable he is with his now vast collection of serve techniques.

 

He lets out a narrow hiss of air, holding the sphere to his forehead. The crackles licking at his feet, coursing up his legs until they quiver with tension – Yamaguchi can only take so much before he has to hide from it. Rib cage creaking, concentration peeling at the edges, he rounds the ball in his palm and slams it to the floor hard. The jump of many shoulders aids him, he drops it a second time, equal strength.

 

It's his only way to fight back right now, since one glimpse of the tower that is his best friend will likely bend him backwards. His body hums with the fervor of an active minefield, even if his clarity runs into the ground thanks to the copious emotions riddling him day in and day out.

 

The desire that chokes him just as violently as the thumping in his heart when Tsukki 'kisses' him – that number well surpassing what he can count on fingers and toes. The almost kisses rocket that well into double digits, maddening illusions – or is it wishful thinking, fantasy, wanton greed? – eating him alive from the inside. No salvation in sight, except that ringing piece of advice from his smaller best friend.

 

Even now, it remains his last resort. The edge of the world last resort.

 

Yamaguchi clamps the ball tight between hands, fingers dancing in adrenaline, and dispenses his weapon to the air. Follows its arc as he sails forward, snaps his hand and sends it to the far right with the flat bottom curve of his palm.

 

“Forward!” he hears Tsukishima bark, long legs carrying him as his teammates scramble from their misjudgment. Midair, the ball ceases it's slow spin and falls right inside the net as if suddenly weighted by iron. The skid of shoes on gloss shoves his mind back to the game, thankfully, all the opposing team throw off by his high arc float.

 

Except the very reason of his cloudy aptitude, who receives the ball with cutthroat precision.

 

And then those eyes are on him again, gazing straight into him, lips perking into mischief.

 

Yamaguchi clicks his teeth, tendons in his neck taut along with the prickles caressing the skin. He barely has time to reclaim his position, feet snagging on the polished wood. His mind races, just like that. A snap of fingers, a flicker of honey, and he's right back where he starts.

 

A grating akin to scratching a chalkboard with lead nails, his thoughts bloom under a feebly wavering focus of the game. Soft lips, even across the court, look utterly kissable. The question of how dark and plump they'd be after a time spent meandering his own rises, as does the sensation of force on his hips, descending with a suggestive tug at his shirt.

 

How glorious the contrast of their skin would look, lush with sweat, pressing together.

 

Giddiness sets in rapid gushes, olive eyes darting uncontrollably – trying to watch the ball and his teammates and _Tsukki_ all at once. His eyes claim a bias, that's for certain.

 

Out of nowhere, Yamaguchi spots the ball careening to his left a split second too late, and dives in instinctual prowess. Someone's shouting, but the brunet doesn't listen, launches himself forward.

 

Yamaguchi barely registers hitting the ball, it flies out of his view instantly. He does, however, feel the jolt of pain when he collides with the net pole, steel biting into the tender of flesh between his neck and shoulder. He jerks, body folding around it momentarily before slumping down. Before anyone can rush to him, though, the brunet slams him fist the ground and throws himself back, face terse.

 

He isn't thinking, only reacting, only exploding.

 

“Chance ball!”

 

He stumbles to his feet just in time for the whistle signaling the end of the game to ring in his ears, looks over to see the ball land in his court. Just in time to see Tsukishima land on the balls of his feet, and pivot his gaze right at him – mouth pinched tight and fists balled. Not anger by any means, but discontent, and it makes Yamaguchi shivers on the spot. A spike of dread fills him, but teammates and opponents alike crowd him too quickly for it to fully take life. Questioning his state, patting his back and speaking much too fast for him to process.

 

His stomach flips all over; it's only a matter of time.

 

Only a matter of time comes twenty minutes later, after clean up and showers let him circle as far away from Tsukishima's range of confrontation as long as possible. Not that he wants to avoid him per say, but with his track record, he needs to right now.

 

Badly according to his posse of butterflies doing their thing in his belly.

 

He stands alone in the locker room, choking down the mumbles in his throat. Absently nursing the blossoming spate of purple on the slope of his neck, he listens for the running of shower water.

 

They're alone, everyone already gone home.

 

So long as he can finish getting dressed, he can sneak out without issue. Homework, that's an excuse that exists. He needs to get home before he spins out of control, before _that_ happens in Tsukki's presence. Gut rumbling and upper region throbbing, Yamaguchi digs in his bag for paper to scribble something – anything. He'll deal with the blond's idle wrath later, he just needs to escape.

 

The water still runs, he has time to avoid a very potential disaster. And when he gets home, when he gets –

 

A hand fastens on his elbow, guiding Yamaguchi around to pair of flaring honey eyes. It tightens when he tries to backpedal, the furrow in Tsukishima's brow deepening as the brunet fidgets under his stare.

 

He's screaming inside, every contour and every pore. Unable to block out the heat washing over his body, the scent of intoxication flooding before he can even take a lung-full of air. Yamaguchi shifts on his heel, appearing as natural as he can but with the shake in his knees he likely looks about to drop.

 

“Yamaguchi,” the blond says, hand sliding up his arm – still vice-like.

 

“Mm...mm?”

 

What are words, anyway?

 

No matter where he directs his sights, he finds more bubbles sprouting in his gut – from clean smelling limbs to pants hanging off bare hips and those god damn eyes that pierce his groin with thousands of needles. Reminders that Tsukishima is concerned for him despite his hovering pressure – that scrunch of his nose and stubborn pucker of lips says as much – fail to put a dent in the flurry whirling around in his skull. It's just him and Tsukki, and all those plaguing emotions crawling up like muck around his ankles, reaching for his trapped heart.

 

Tsukishima moves in, spices and musk following. Yamaguchi sucks in a shaky breath, an imaginary taste on his tongue.

 

He's falling.

 

“ – if you're not careful – “

 

Just as the words connect in Yamaguchi's head, Tsukishima dips into his personal space, nose chasing a bead of sweat along the brunet's jaw. Lips replace the intrusion to follow the trail down his wounded neck, tongue lathering a hot path until teeth capture a sensitive plate of flesh – grazing before his tongue revives down his palette.

 

Yamaguchi sways backwards, jerking a tad as the arm bracing him tugs him back, both possessive and stabilizing. A trap as warmth kisses at his shoulder, peppering with a plentiful flurry that rivals the freckles on his skin. He quivers on the spot, dull throb in his groin. The affection wanders back up his neck, lures him into tilting himself open. Tsukishima rewards him with a jumbled groan, and a tongue that slicks up the trim of Yamaguchi's ear, plucks the lobe and lets it pop from his mouth.

 

“ _I want you –_ “

 

He jerks, awake and jostled by the hand that now hovers over his shoulder and the stern look on his best friend's face. Tsukishima regards him quietly, searching him out and god, does Yamaguchi want to retreat into a cave somewhere far away. Never has he had a daydream right in front of him, and now all he can think of is the sizzling in his bones and the phantom heat nesting in his neck – not an ounce of him accounts it to the bruise marring him.

 

“W-what, Tsukki?” he tries, voice locking up. The blond frowns, but steps out of the bubble and Yamaguchi can't help but take the breath of the century when he's a safe distance.

 

“I said I want you to be careful, that's a nasty injury,” Tsukishima repeats, apparently, turning away to his own locker right next to him. He continues as he towels at his hair, “It's fine that you want to play seriously even for hobby games, but choose your battles. It's not worth your getting hurt...” 

 

His words dive down a long tunnel, the brunet barely hears them as he watches Tsukki towel at his hair.

 

Suddenly, Yamaguchi feels possession in his nerves. The urge to run very far away climbing with a fever pitch, chased only mere inches behind by the overwhelming desire to also waltz up to his best friend and touch the glisten of his pale skin. 

 

He hums, doesn't know whether from acknowledgment of Tsukki's words or his inner turmoil, but his attraction sends him leaping off the cliff of breaking reason.

 

The brunet spots it, a bead of water falling from an unruly curl to Tsukishima's nape. A sinuous entity possesses him, itches at his hands because that droplet caresses down a lithe back – down the bumps of a ripply spine. He swallows, fingers twitching to life.

 

How has he been holding back? He doesn't remember anymore, but all signals are pointing in opposing directions and Yamaguchi doesn't know which to follow. 

 

It quickly becomes an endless rally, back and forth, back and forth.

 

Touch him. Do not touch him.

 

_Touch him._

 

Do  _**not** _ touch him. 

 

He's so close, just reach a hand out, reach for him. 

 

It's the first instance he allows himself the sinful luxury of living his reveries, the desire that's been piling through his stubborn denial since day one simply explodes like a dam. Pouring uncontrollably out of his pores, screaming into the evening. He feels that poison, that harrowing toxic desire work through him, festering to the surface with the crack of a whip. 

 

It excruciating. It's frightening. 

 

It's  _amazing_ . 

 

His fingers spasm as his arm begins to extend, olive eyes excruciatingly focused on the war path it's partaking. Time slows down, as if his surroundings are blurring and melting out of sight like the distance on a hot, hot day – the only clear vision being Tsukki and his body and that god damn drop of sweat that's tugging Yamaguchi's sight down with it as it dips down the swell of hips and ass. Digits jerking like mechanical coils springing to life, he spreads, _reaches_ and then the ghosting of softness under his fingertips is felt by his entire body.

 

The touch is so brief, it doesn't even last a second before he's recoiling from the startling electric shock left behind. The smoothness of pale skin, the lingerings of moistness from their previous exertions and a citrus shower, the contour of Kei's hip as he brushed it – Yamaguchi remembers it all with alarming clarity for a touch so fleeting. 

 

He's left staring at the spot, transfixed as it suddenly curves, muscles flexing and then, Kei's eyes are on him again. The brunet sees it. Sees the goosebumps on Tsukki's arms and when the blond turns to stare at him, there is a vacant bleariness in his eyes, pupils dark, lips drawn thin. 

 

Tsukishima looks away without a word. 

 

Yamaguchi glances down at the offending hand, shudders on the spot.

 

And it's all over. 

 

* * *

 

_He can't take it anymore._

 

Resistance seeping through the cracks, Yamaguchi feels his very body screaming for some sort of reprieve. Something to appease the rumbling that sends his heart thundering with even the most minuscule remembrance of countless daydreams. Or nightmares, the brunet doesn't know which he lives these days.

 

Ever since the evening after that recreation game one week prior, when his brain painted an image of curls falling into his vision as a warm tongue marred his throat and claimed his lips after a blistering trail of kisses, Yamaguchi hasn't felt a lick of normalcy. Not in his waking moments, nor in his sleep, just a constant ebb and flow of reckless desire. All he sees is amber and corn-silk blond and pale peach glistening with sweat and hues of excursion.

 

But it's never from the game, it's never from memory.

 

A reverie is what haunts him, feeding off him every day and turning fantasies into dizzy 'what ifs' and wishes.

 

It drives him so crazy.

 

The streets buzz with noise, but it's all white to him – background and filters and distance fuzz. Lamps and store lights casting blurry bulbs of color around, he storms with impure intent brewing in his veins. He doesn't even register the blaring horn of a nearby car, only his destination, and the two and a half hours he'll have the apartment to himself for.

 

His only chance, and Yamaguchi wants to drown in every second – no denial in sight.

 

When Yamaguchi gets home, legs burning from impatience and two-step marches up the stairs, he sheds what he can with haste. He drops his bag, uncaring, and nearly tears the steaming jacket off his shoulders as his shoes disappear in a randomized trajectory through the living room.

 

He's about to have the tryst of a lifetime, yet Yamaguchi is the only player.

 

Even dressed down, he's hot, sweltering. He might as well be suffering through a muggy summer afternoon instead of the cool, early winter evening he rushed home in, there is nothing but heat and the first rise of sweat dripping at his brow.

 

Eyes stinging, lingers of damning murmurs – soft and melodious and flat out beautiful – tease in his ears, tickling him with a sensation akin to someone breathing shamelessly straight into him. Lips grazing his lobe, very real.

 

Throwing himself to his bed, Yamaguchi gropes at a pillow, pinching it between his biceps to squeeze the life out of it. Imagines a steady, firm chest and thin abdomen, so very opposite to the fluffy object in his embrace. The smell is Yamaguchi's, but he remembers Tsukishima's scent of spices and sweat as easy as he could place name to a flower, fragrant and potent as always in his nostrils. There is only so much he can handle, intoxication settling in quickly, gradually drugging his senses like deadly nightshade.

 

Such a sweet venom, luring him as if he's being beckoned by a slowly curling finger.

 

Fingering the sewn seam along the center of his pants, Yamaguchi stops, nearly stiffens from the arousal he finds under his touch. Finds himself lacking any surprise what so ever, simply traces a line down between his thighs as he continues hugging the pillow against his cheek.

 

He lets out a quivering breath, quiet and hesitant, whispers through the silence of the darkened bedroom – a stolen sigh filled to the brim with trepidation. Yamaguchi stretches out, body lax over strewn out sheets and a thick duvet bundled at his feet. He twists his head to the side, breathing hot air on a clothed, lightly-freckled shoulder – apprehensive despite his thrice checked solitude. Bleary eyes fluttering shut, Yamaguchi ignores his magnetic attraction to the dark gap under the doorway and nails his mind to the shivering fingers dipping under the band of his baggy sweats.

 

Even as he strokes a palm languidly down the erect bump in his underwear, Yamaguchi can't force his sense of itchy paranoia to subside. It's not as if he's doing anything unnatural – he's masturbated before, plenty. There isn't anything to hold him back, nor anything that should shove such a strong knot of unease deep into his stomach.

 

No matter how determined, no matter how full to the brim with need Yamaguchi is, his thoughts are still spinning, spinning, _spinning._

 

They overflow, plunging him under a wave with flaxen hair piped up in messy curls, nimble digits, and honey-glazed eyes.

 

The sole difference between this personal affair and every other raw moment is the fuel that lights his skin with deep-seated kinder. Fuel that engorges his senses with toxicity and pumps his lungs with desperate breaths. There's not even a hint of similarity between the dull heat of drab high school routine and this wild electricity casting ruin within his body.

 

If only he could mark this putrid addiction as something unwanted, but all he finds at every mental corner is the drive to dive deeper in this passionate hell. Permanently holding him, but always kissing him with soft fantasies of requite.

 

Gritting his teeth, Yamaguchi allows himself a slow, agonizing stroke up along his shaft and lets out a throaty moan, working himself in a steady rhythm while willing his mind elsewhere.

 

The smooth swipe of his thumb over the slit of his dick has his mind reeling in a storm of thoughts that dance chaotically, a waltz attempting to come to life in zero gravity. To his stiff delight, his mind floats in the clouds, eyes rolling and nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. Yamaguchi tenses, writhes in what he could easily call agony if it wasn't for the torrents of pleasure wracking his body.

 

He slicks himself in jerking motions as he seeps in thoughts blooming with sultry color, imagination dropping heavy twists in his gut.

 

Thoughts – Yamaguchi muses with a sigh as his palm glides along moist skin – of his best friend pinning him with an indomitable stare and long fingers. Burnt gold roaming his body in an obvious line right over his heart, down his fluttering stomach and past an insanely throbbing cock, exposing him with covetous looks until he's raw.

 

He seals his lips tight, swallowing yet another groan deep down. With no desire to being caught or heard by neighbors – as unlikely as that is – Yamaguchi stifles the remainder of his voice as the calloused balls of his hand pass aggressively over the head of his cock. Smears the beading pre-come down, creating a delicious friction and coercing his lips into leaking a choked moan.

 

“Ah-” his concentration staggers – brain trying to both push and pull thoughts of Tsukishima at the same time while tugging his heated body accordingly with eager touches.

 

Yamaguchi has never felt more dirty, yet more  _turned on_ , and he's soon crushed with the broken floodgates that are vivid reflections of Tsukki, Tsukki,  _Tsukki._ He passes over the tip of his dick once again, mental vision blurring from reality and lurking in the comfortable haze of fantasia. An ironically boyish jaw grazing his periphery as he peeks over Yamaguchi's shoulder, the barest skirting of arm against arm, the warm breath on his neck as the blond peeks at homework – an unintentional, yet very real everyday seduction. 

 

Humming weakly, Yamaguchi finds himself wanting to curse Tsukishima, wanting to curse himself even more for being so easily roused into a tizzy, for becoming so head over heels for his best friend, for wanting Tsukishima for himself.

 

And  _god,_ does he want him so bad. Like a tremor, a disease. 

 

Slowing his hand to a lingering crawl, Yamaguchi tilts his head back deeply into his pillow, throat exposed as a guttural moan slips effortlessly from his lips – mind completely disassociated from the room around him. All he hears is the pounding of his heart and the occasional – though more frequent than Yamaguchi can even try to control – sounds from his mouth as he works himself into a craze, arousal pouring from his very pores and dousing him further in bliss.

 

A finger brushes over the pearly beads dribbling down his languid fist, and once collected, dips deeper into his underwear as he lets his imagination finally drop into complete vulgarity.

 

What would it be like if Tsukishima was the one touching him? How would it _feel_ to have his larger, nimble digits – and rougher set of callouses on his palms – wrapping around his throbbing cock and stroking him as he murmurs in his ear?

 

_Are you feeling it, Yamaguchi?_

 

_Right here?_

 

_You're_ dripping _a lot, you know?_

 

_Why don't you come for me?'_

 

What if the blond pressed kisses to his throat, pulling him taut with a fist laced tight in his hair? Decorating his skin with deep, blossoming violets to match the peppering of freckles dusting down his collar, his still fading bruise. Or grazed a nipple through his shirt, pinching over fabric and lighting him on fire from the friction?

 

Yamaguchi burns from that sharp stare, those russet eyes. Touching him everywhere, leaving bruise after bruise on his neck, so vibrant and unsubtle that he wouldn't be able to hide them from their peers. What if he whispered Yamaguchi's name as he came in Tsukishima's palm, voice poignant and gruff with lush air spilling between his lips?

 

_Yamaguchi._

 

What if –

 

_Tadashi..._

 

“ _Ngh,_ ” Yamaguchi's throat hitches, vocals tight and lips parting as he pants heavily – a wet finger crawling deep between his soft thighs. Lascivious, he shivers, entire body tense and sensitive from teasing as his ears ring and heels dig into the mattress. There's a very small line between self control and outright losing his mind at this point, and Yamaguchi only reasons that he's very close to simply throwing himself over it with all he's worth. 

 

_Tsukki._

 

There isn't a coherent way in which he can even describe how much he desires his best friend's warmth; flurries of vivid fantasy of the blond hovering dangerously low over him – stroking him, _fucking_ him – it hammers down from every direction. Flashes of illusory ministrations wrack his brain, tantalizing and fervid as they rake over every inch of his body with relentless pleasure.

 

If only Tsukishima would rinse him of everything pure until Yamaguchi becomes numb from over-stimulation and his throat grows ragged from the endless howling deep in his aching lungs. He wishes he didn't have to imagine it anymore. If only those pale fingers could seer him, scale his entire being right here as he writhes on the bed.

 

The cries in his head rise in pitch like a boiling geyser, spilling over and reeking of the most devastating poisons.

 

He needs this so bad.

 

_Tsukki._

 

Joints drowning an overwhelming surplus of light-headed euphoria, Yamaguchi strokes himself fast – an inescapable prick of perversion wrought in his heart, but it only makes him move faster – a sick and twisted knowledge that this is incredibly _dirty_ , but inescapably amazing.

 

Not one part of him wants to stop.

 

_Tsukki._

 

His body shaking with intense tremors, Yamaguchi's chest pops up, mouth dropping open unabashedly as he whimpers through rough strokes. He hardly feels anything less than possessed with unbearable tension, the urge to fall through the splitting cracks of his rapidly approaching orgasm mounting.

 

What soon invades his mind startles Yamaguchi into another guttural mewl, a torrid invasion of his until-now mental mantra of his best friend's name. Knot in his throat bobbing, the brunet stiffens as his fist tightens around the head of his cock, lips quivering as the syllables he wants to voice tingle on his tongue.

 

Such a craving sits deep in his belly, sending jolts easily as powerful as the ones that spasm his sensitive nerves with each wet squelch between his fingers. Plump lips pucker as a hiss seeps through them, Tsukishima's name probing to the surface – fighting Yamaguchi's hesitation to let it escape. The desire simmers, coaxing him like a love song, lyrics so ridiculously simple but heavy.

 

Can he...just once? Once would be okay, right? Speak – sing that vibrant melody that threatens to consume him within this dirt-ridden reverie.

 

_Tsukki likes music – sing for him._

 

Just once, Yamaguchi parts his lips, and lets all of his wanton longing free with a throaty sigh –

 

“ _Tsukki_ –“

 

“Yamaguchi.”

 

With the force of a kick to the ribs, the air drains instantly from his lungs. A strained, raucous gasp dislodges as Yamaguchi lurches into awareness – a suffocating pang stabbing him. He clamps tight on the base of his erection with a grunt, halting any sort of release, and whips his hazy vision to the owner of the voice that addressed him – the very man whose name he just moaned aloud, peering down from above.

 

He's not dreaming – Tsukishima's here.

 

_Oh **god** no. _

 

His mind screams, horror pilfering any sense of pleasure left in his bones as he meets those potent, clear eyes. Locked in a bear trap, the brunet locks gazes with his best friend, stomach tossing about and heart ready to petrify. Looking away quickly becomes an impossible feat – Yamaguchi quivers on the spot, the growing length of silence between them and that indomitable honey creating both intense duress and a manifest of sensations he can only rationalize as some sort of disturbing excitement.

 

He's almost disgusted with his battling emotions.

 

The fingers around his cock shake with force, desperately trying to drown the ache that comes from his neglected groin, and Yamaguchi vaguely tries to will himself to cover up with the discarded quilt, or even take his hands out of his damn pants. The signals don't register, body frigid despite the heat steaming from his skin.

 

Sucking in incredibly stiff air, Yamaguchi comes to realize just how sticky his throat feels – suddenly thick with invisible murk akin to swallowing mud. Olive eyes waver for a moment, finally noticing the light that cracks into the room from a barely open door, returns them soon after to that gaze of simmered amber.

 

Tsukishima remains silent, the eerie quiet of the room since the brunet's name left his lips lingering between them like a saturated fog of discomfort. It leaves Yamaguchi suddenly twitching to life in a madcap need to assemble some sort of decency. Those eyes pierce too strongly, too much knowledge in those irises that it makes Yamaguchi wrought with tension – stressed at his inability to manage any sense of coherency.

 

Soon enough, Yamaguchi twists his body away and pulls his hands free. He crosses them over his chest and curls up with the intent to hide himself, burying his face into the pillow to escape such flat scrutiny.

 

Being found out this way, being caught in the middle of complete vulnerability and raw desire – it trumps everything he could have ever envisioned. His intent to keep these heavy emotions hidden under wraps nigh impossible now; all Yamaguchi can do is mentally crawl under a rock and hope their relationship doesn't capsize under the revelation of his impure heart.

 

The rickety organ in the brunet's chest continues to thunder as he lies still, as if physically encompassing his wish for this situation to shift – for Tsukishima to _do_ something.

 

Why is he just standing there? Please, please leave.

 

Please.

 

He can't find it in himself to even ask Tsukishima to make a swift exit, an awkward encounter imminent if he so much as opens his mouth, so Yamaguchi instead pulls his lip between teeth and bites down to keep himself from quivering. Crying seems like a very viable option, now that the goosebumps settle on his skin and the feeling of his body numbs with fully settled embarrassment.

 

Moments later, a sudden soft thud brings Yamaguchi from his panicked stupor, though he still refuses to look towards his retreating best friend. Can he even call him that anymore? He knows he can't bear to watch Tsukishima leave, nor find the look of scorn and betrayal that he can only imagine harbors in the blond's stare.

 

Yamaguchi slumps when he hears the door shut with a slow click, his body shot with heartbreaking exhaustion. His chest throbs with dissonance as tears burn at the corners of his eyes. An unfathomable rock of guilt knocks on his skull, digging hard. The brunet curses his impulses, curses these stupid feelings that couldn't just take a back seat until he could grasp them safely and not like a boneless mass suddenly thrown down a rocky hill. If only he could have hidden his rampaging feelings of love and lust under lock and key until they were a peaceful, gentle drizzle instead of a typhoon destroying everything in its path.

 

But Yamaguchi knows he can't simply choose how fast, nor how hard he falls in love.

 

He knows, and that's why he's here now.

 

His sternum stutters as he inhales deeply, but just as the air deflates from his lungs, Yamaguchi feels the bed dip with foreign weight. Warmth seizes him, very familiar fingers pressing into the soft flesh of his arm and pushing Yamaguchi flat on his back. The digits leave a string of shivers as they trail down and fasten on his wrist, pinning it to his side, soon followed by the other – effectively trapping the brunet hard to the bed.

 

Yamaguchi eyes widen, pupils fighting to adjust to the sudden darkness of the room, and finds the dangerously heated stare of his best friend. The sharpness of the blond's shadowed irises crackle over his freckled skin like a whip, so unlike the previous, more flaccid gaze that Tsukishima held that it almost scares him.

 

Something else rustles in his stomach, and that sends him blazing from crown to toe.

 

Tsukishima sits silent for a long while, leaving Yamaguchi breathless and wavering between sanity and madness, until finally, the hovering blond shifts from above. The knee braced on the mattress dips even deeper as the taller teen twists over Yamaguchi's body and settles on his lap. Noiselessly, Tsukishima tightens his hold on the brunet's wrists and curls over, the weight of his ass rubbing gloriously on Yamaguchi's groin.

 

Yamaguchi wonders if his freckles themselves are on fire as Tsukishima comes close, hovering just above his face – calm breaths glazing over flaming cheeks.

 

“Yamaguchi,” the sound of Tsukishima's rough voice, a low and rumbling tone that sweeps so, _so_ close to the distressed boy's ear – murmurs hotly. “What were you doing?”

 

He completely freezes as Tsukishima creeps closer – their noses touching briefly. He chews harder on his lip – the slight pain helping him keep silent – and shakes his head, tilting his chin down and away from the lucid gaze above.

 

No, he  _ can't _ say it.

 

When Tsukishima's hands tighten around Yamaguchi's trapped wrists, the tight-lipped brunet tosses his face side to side, breathing hard through his nose and shaking as Tsukishima moves against him – a harrowing reminder of the dense arousal nesting in his groin. Though this time, Yamaguchi folds helplessly, a moan bubbling through his teeth as small droplets of mental red start to absorb into his skin again – fueling the hidden kindle still burning in his system.

 

“Yamaguchi – ”

 

_He can't._

 

“ – tell me.” 

 

Not to him, he can't say he's so fucking in love.

 

Yamaguchi trembles when a dull nudge pushed his head back up – the contact from Tsukishima tapping his forehead against his – and finally, their eyes met. As the blond opens his mouth, he finds himself waiting on tenterhooks as plush lips part.

 

“ _Tell me,_ ” Tsukishima tries again, eyes diving straight into his soul, probing him.

 

Electrifying his core.

 

His forehead nudges with more insistence, and Yamaguchi fumbles about with how much his body starts to rebel – clenching his eyes shut as he catches himself observing trite details at their close proximity. How flaxen lashes are millimeters from brushing his skin, or the skirting of fingernails on the tender flesh of his wrists. That fucking weight on his lap, rolling like a wave and definitely crashing violent surges through his system.

 

He can't take it; he's falling. The dreams and desires come crashing back into Yamaguchi's mind at speeds untouchable to his frantic senses – blazing about and pressing at his seams. Tsukishima unwinds him so easily, he doesn't even know if he can be called anything but a mass of hypersensitivity.

 

“P-please,” Yamaguchi finally begs aloud, the ministrations from his teeth leaving the abused lip red and throbbing.

 

– _touch me_ , he doesn't finish. 

 

The blond stops, frowning for a split moment, though not from anger from the way his eyes focus downwards.

 

Thoughtful, calculating.

 

Before the brunet is even allowed a moments reprieve, Tsukishima's nose edges along the curve of Yamaguchi's jaw, sending rivets of chill along his sensitive skin with each tiny drag up a path to the brunet's ear. Soft and warm, yet drilling tingles down to his very bones, and he shakes, shakes when nimble fingers caress along his palms and thread through his own. Clasping tight, sealing him.

 

The blond's voice drops, air muggy against the shell of Yamaguchi's ear. “Come on,” Tsukishima sucks in an impalpable breath, and hums, sending a wickedly devastating tingle dripping slowly down Yamaguchi's body. “ _Yamaguchi_.”

 

That voice. _That voice._

 

The brunet's eyes widen, darting about the room as he fights to collect himself, not to whimper on the spot. It's happening once again – Tsukki's coloring him, weakening his defenses. His breath, tone coarse like gravel, pouring words through lips he never thought he'd be so close to. Just within reach, a slight turn and they would touch.

 

Unable to speak, throat beyond tight as Tsukishima's mouth brushes at his earlobe, Yamaguchi's body trembles. Eyes fluttering, he rolls against the lips on his skin and finally, he gasps through his hampering breathlessness, “ – crazy.”

 

A smile teases his neck, just ghosting over the sensitive flesh beneath his ear, “Hmm?”

 

Yamaguchi's arms lift weakly, not even a protest, but a knee-jerk reaction to that soft skin being caressed softly, barely, under warmth; a choppy gasp escapes as tears formed at the corners of his eyes.

 

“Tsukki,” he finally manages to choke out, body overwhelmed and instinctively pitching upwards to move against Tsukishima's groin. “You...me...crazy...I'm...mad. I wanna kiss, touch you _Tsukki ..._ m'sorry.”

 

_You make me so crazy. I'm going mad because I wanna kiss you, touch you, Tsukki. I'm sorry._

 

The words clam up deep in Yamaguchi's chest, an amalgamation of spiking arousal and desperation to articulate the madness punching through his ribs. Exhalation breezes down the slope of his throat, heightens his inner palpitations. It stops him in his tracks, hazel fixating on the black of Tsukishima's frames as their gazes shift, then connect once again.

 

A thin brow quirks just barely, greets Yamaguchi with a gesture that doesn't even attempt to hide all the intentions about to come crashing down. Leans down sinuously, dragging every connected part of their bodies with livening friction as Tsukishima's fingers pulse within Yamaguchi's – tightens.

 

Within moments, Tsukishima moves in, so close that the trembling brunet practically _feels_ the lips brushing over his even when breaths apart. They're there, but they aren't – an unfocused line that Yamaguchi damns with every shuddering fiber of his being.

 

And when that hair-thread line breaks, when Tsukishima's mouth brushes over his – open-mouthed and breathy, he tumbles down like a broken house of cards.

 

“Then, Yamaguchi,” the blond pushes lightly against the plush of Yamaguchi's lips, murmurs nearing a growl as liquored irises snap him still with a glance. “ – _just fucking touch me already_.”

 

Then, Tsukishima stops, and watches. A look of simplicity, but those amber eyes are loaded, even the shivering brunet can tell as much.

 

It's then that Yamaguchi hears the insane pounding in his chest, a heart riled up to obscene levels. He's floored, eyes wide as he absorbs his best friend's words and tries with all his might not to stare at the feeble cavity between their lips – the very lips that claimed him dozens upon dozens of times in his living reveries.

 

Soon enough, he basks in the rush that starts to scream through his veins. Finds it amazing how the mere thought of kissing laces him in trills of adrenaline, burying him in prickles of intensity and slamming those piles of nervousness and panic under the ground. And, blessedly, the brunet releases the breath he doesn't realize he was holding – crawls his fingers along Tsukishima's pant legs and grabs at him as fiercely as the reservations drop from his body one by one.

 

After all, Yamaguchi wants to kiss him. Needs to _, is dying to._ So, what's stopping him? Nothing.

 

_Nothing._

 

Slowly, with a tiny breath and the deeper pinking of cheeks, Yamaguchi leans up just enough to peck his best friend on the mouth. He lingers for a trio of seconds, lips puckering on his half-missed target, and registers the softness of Tsukishima's cheek under his nose as he retreats – eyes roaming the invisible trace-line of his kiss.

 

The blond doesn't move, only blinks slowly, lashes parting even slower as he regards the boy underneath him. Just barely, Yamaguchi sees him pucker his lips, as if directing his focus where it should be.

 

He doesn't need a second prompting, and meets the taunt again for another brief touch. Pecks again, and again with whispers of throaty noise in between to keep himself from flying away completely – eventually peppering Tsukishima's mouth in a series of light brushes and pops of his lips. Many kisses miss like the first, corners and sharp tip of nose and the soft valley in between, but it's all Yamaguchi manages when he's so crazed to prove this isn't his imagination.

 

He wants to replace each and every phantom kiss with reality.

 

The last kiss before he falls back to the pillow sticks from the dryness of their lips, the taller's bottom one pulling between his own. Yamaguchi sucks in a willowy breath, the brevity of it still evident from the pulse that works through him.

 

Noticing the dull quiet around him, he peers up at the blond. Peers into eyes that were once their usual honey brown, now burning a dark molasses, and feels the heart dancing inside him skip short when thin lashes curtain dilate pupils and the blond's lips slowly peel into a half-smile.

 

A devious finger lifts to Yamaguchi's mouth, tapping him once, “Yamaguchi.”

 

His very name drips from Tsukishima's throat, carnal and velvety, and his entire body tremors.

 

“ _Open your mouth._ ”

 

By the time he works at obeying his given request, a finger tips his mouth open, pushing gently on the soft flesh of Yamaguchi's bottom lip. A hitched chirp escapes from the brunet as another digit slips inside to slowly rub and caress the wet surface of his now outstretched tongue. The sensation leaps down his throat, into his chest – making his lungs catch and stomach flutter uncontrollably.

 

Reasoning aside, he automatically chases the pad as it trails down the pink muscle, tip flicking the edge playfully as it retreats. A sigh only half escapes before Tsukishima closes in completely and catches Yamaguchi's open mouth, tongue delving in to meet his, flush and warm and smooth. His entire lower half lays stricken with a whole new series of shakes, the dip of Tsukishima's hips and the humming twinge of exhalation pricking relentlessly at the brunet's groin – revving him up, a purring engine.

 

His fingers, burning with blood rush, clamp tightly onto his best friend's pants. Tugs them hard, yanking as if it would bring Tsukishima even closer to him – nails digging into his palms even through the fabric.

 

Yamaguchi pops up when teeth nibble at him, nose clunking awkwardly into the blond's, but just as quickly reclaims his place – kissing and pulling soft lips between his own, sighing pleasantly as the hands that swirl around his nape tighten just so. His calm runs away to the horizon as they kiss and lick and bite, a flagrant mess of affection. Yamaguchi can easily pinpoint his inexperience with each clatter of pearly whites or mushing of noses.

 

So long as _Tsukki_ plunders the breath from his lungs, Yamaguchi could care less.

 

The sentiment only increases as the kisses soften, a whine rising to his lips. The windswept brunet releases grip-stiffened fingers and wraps them around the firm span of Tsukishima's back, locking them together with the thrust of his chin and a insistent pull. He's hardly able to keep himself together when his forwardness takes the reigns, gives his best friend a cat-like caress of tongue, and it's then that Tsukishima slides his hands down his body to squirming hips.

 

Yamaguchi truly finds it astounding how naturally they move around each other despite their clumsy demeanor– Tsukishima brushing up shivering ribs and Yamaguchi fisting the shirt tight in his palms, each tugging the other closer as heavy breaths escape their nostrils, lips refusing to separate from their fusion.

 

Hiking up the seam of cotton, the brunet haphazardly shoves his chilly fingers up to touch the pale length, shaking from giddiness as he follows the notches of Tsukishima's spine.

 

The tunnel vision around him intensifies, his bedroom a subspace that slowly ceases to exist as he loses focus on everything that isn't the tall blond on top of him. Whether its because reality finally has taken its claws to Yamaguchi's feverish mind, or that Tsukishima starts to tease the pads of his thumbs just so over his chest, the brunet crashes and burns brilliantly – a throaty moan peeling through their kiss and breaking the wet quiet. Another stumbles from his lips just as quickly – a nail grazing his nipple the culprit – and sparked to life by the stimuli, Yamaguchi bucks his hips messily.

 

Even as their lips part, he can't pull himself together in the slightest, thoughts much too explicit; his mind flutters, swept up in the storm of his deep-seated excitement. His skin, his heart, his everything burning under Tsukishima's weight doesn't fare much better, the gears holding him together twisting so far out of sync they're two flicks from simply fly off the tracks.

 

It's like he's someone completely different, but he knows, he _knows_ that this has been festering deep down for a long time. Waiting to burst, or be dragged from his very being – whichever comes first.

 

With how clearly Yamaguchi's knocked off his mental feet, it's most definitely the latter.

 

The tap of black frames hits his forehead, snapping him from his watery reverie and back to stare into those alluring dark irises. Tsukishima's hand lifts to fix them back on the bridge of his nose, the other now nestling softly – but possessively firm – on Yamaguchi's waist. The blond leans down, the hue of pink on the pale of his cheeks tickling him all over, and presses a lingering kiss on his plump lips.

 

“Hey,” Tsukishima murmurs against Yamaguchi's mouth, voice ripe with all kinds of inclinations. “Do you want –“

 

“ _Yes_ ,” he practically gushes back, hands smoothing along the blond curls on Tsukishima's nape until he's cupping that sharp jaw. “Please don't ask...just – ”

 

The loaded look he receives in return only twists the coils in Yamaguchi's belly tighter. He doesn't resist his inner urge to pull Tsukishima down to him, peppering his mouth and chin in unabashed need.

 

He hears the light pant in his ear, breath hot, “Do you have condoms? Or –“

 

Yamaguchi freezes, the mention – or promise he could surmise – of impending bedroom activities, of _sex_ , only makes his groin stiffen more, even with the blunt question.

 

It's both charming _and_ arousing somehow amid his fever.

 

“No,” he mutters, plopping back on the pillow. “Do we need them?

 

“Yes.”

 

The brunet takes the answer easily, smiling and running a hand through his best friend's unruly curls. His cheeks still linger with red burn, and watches as Tsukishima bites his lip in concentration, thumbs on his waist rubbing in short lines.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” the taller teen curses under his breath, and abruptly leans back. Yamaguchi hisses at the weight pressing down on his erection, a tiny gasp cutting off the name at the tip of his tongue. Within seconds, the pressure alleviates, and he's gracelessly pulled from the bed to his feet.

 

Tsukishima rounds on him, eyes murky as he pops down to capture Yamaguchi's lips in a hard kiss before murmuring lowly, “Let's make this quick.”

 

Before he manages to open his mouth, Tsukishima takes Yamaguchi by the wrist, pulls him out into the hall and makes a bee line straight past the kitchen and to the front door. The brunet barely has a moment to slide on shoes, he nearly topples over his own feet as he awes over how balletic Tsukishima foots into his own and snatches his keys and wallet off the neighboring table. 

 

They're out the door within a minute, and Yamaguchi barely keeps pace with the long stride his best friend strikes up – the urgency in his walk and the tightness of his hand on the brunet's wrist tells so much more than words ever could. 

 

The entire trip whirlwinds through his head, pace impatient and hurried. His body fancies a constant state of jitters, from the time Tsukishima captures him in the elevator. Kissing him into utter stupidity and leaving him to blindly hit at the floor buttons, all the way past the people waiting at the lobby – dear god the licks of being caught revitalize him – to the store down the block. The blond keeps him close, his intentions and wild emotions even closer. 

 

They all involve Yamaguchi – and _fuck,_ he shares every single one.

 

He doesn't even remember walking into the convenience store, only a basket of electric blue and boxes and bottles – they're out before the ability to tame his delirium even crosses Yamaguchi's mind. It's maddening just how a little speed and needy tugs send him into a tizzy. Taking in surrounding happens with the jarring frenzy of a rapid camera, flashing evening lights of the city shops across his retinas only amplify the fantasy dancing in his head. The vibrancy blurs together, all highlighting the strong silhouette of his best friend – the pink on his ears and the nimble movements of his tall form all the more beautiful amid his vivid imagery. 

 

He's living a dream, he thinks as that hand on his wrist drops lower – fingers threading with the tiniest of shakes.

 

* * *

 

Even before the apartment door shuts, Tsukishima bumps forward, nestling right up at Yamaguchi's back – fingering at his shoulders before rushing him against the wall. His frames clack abruptly against the brunet's forehead as an impatient mouth seals his own, impetus knocking him so hard his feet slip from beneath him. The bag drops from Yamaguchi's arm in a heap on the floor, much too hurried in bracing himself from collapsing on the spot.

 

It's not until Yamaguchi finds his footing again, body trapped between speckle paint and eager heat, that he's able fix a leg between Tsukishima's and attempt to remove his shoes. And when he finally flips one off and several feet away, he realizes that he wasn't wearing two shoes, but one and a dinosaur shaped slipper. 

 

He tries not to dwell on it, the blond nibbling at him certainly not keen on letting him focus elsewhere, but Yamaguchi can't help but remember the odd look the cashier gave him going into the store – though it definitely wasn't for the same reason leaving, with the way Tsukishima was glued to him.

 

He clips himself short on the spot, teeth on his bottom lip dragging the thoughts out and muddling the brunet with his current obsession. Toes curling, he shimmies into the firm digits grabbing at his hips, almost rising to his tip toes just to frot that perfect way to make his head spin and throat sing.

 

Whether or not either of them even know what's happening, or if they're both running on auto, Yamaguchi could care less – not that he's able to think with the way Tsukishima licks slowly into his mouth, tongue glossing over his teeth before capturing him for the nth time.

 

He'll never get used to such forwardness, Yamaguchi reasons. He's still wrapping his head around the fact that his best friend is right in front of him, kissing him, claiming him, touching him with abandon. Mostly his hips though, he's really fond of the hips.

 

Yamaguchi is fond of it too, he won't lie.

 

In a tiny moment of clarity between licks and nips and pinches, the brunet tries to locate the discarded bag with a foot, hands far too occupied in burying themselves in Tsukishima's hair. He searches absently, blindly shifting his knee from between the taller boy's legs, but only succeeds in stroking high within the apex of limber thighs.

 

The abrupt cut of their connection, accompanied by a muffled gasp, only serves to stir the pool dripping low in Yamaguchi's stomach. It hurts so pleasantly, he wants to deepen the sensation until he can no longer feel the tingles in his toes.

 

He looks up, fingers forking blond tresses, and finds an utterly scandalized face staring between them – eyes wide and cheeks oh-so-wonderfully pink from the rebellious trill of the blond's vocals. Yamaguchi smiles at the palms still stubborn in rubbing his sides, smiles and takes the small window to lean forward and brush his nose along the soft warmth of Tsukishima's face.

 

“You started it,” he breathes, voice hushed – aroused beyond comprehension.

 

Tsukishima eyes him, amber sharp with the focus of a predator.

 

“Did I?” the blond throws back. Utter grit, sounding like a feral growl, it snaps Yamaguchi to attention.

 

He catches lightly puckered lips – kissed bruised or purposely so, Yamaguchi can't tell at this point – and low lids, sunny lashes only deepening the darkness found beyond them. Tsukishima's dark, dark irises watch him. It's a willing lack of composure, and it throws Yamaguchi exceptionally off kilter.

 

Isn't he supposed to be the one losing mind, his control? At least more than the blown-eyed giant towering over him, wide palms sneaking to cup his ass – tug them back together.

 

Those damned eyes, circling his prey.

 

Yamaguchi has to pop back just to breathe, finding little space as his shoulders tap the wall, his body splayed messily in an awkward 'S' – pinned body to his foundation and groin flush to Tsukishima's. His shoulder blades dig into the plaster as he rolls, trying to not let himself drown in that fervid, serious stare. The blond barely rolls his hips before Yamaguchi lets out a low hiss, arms falling to fist his best friend's shirt.

 

He honestly doesn't know whether to tremble in rapture or fret on the spot with how much those eyes communicate the willingness to continue right where they stand. Half of his brain screams to just let it happen, maybe start by tearing at the buttons buried in his grip. Lift a leg, pull Tsukishima in, roll his hips back and grind until he's bleeding through his best friend's fingertips like sand through an hourglass.

 

“How is it that I'm the one with more – _ngh –_ composure right _now_ ,” he barely manages to choke out his words before nimble hands squeeze at him again, fingers spidering along supple curves and spreading his cheeks – prying between them.

 

_Ohh_...there goes his composure.

 

His breath hitches, a large gulp of air escaping as a wet pant.

 

“Maybe being caught masturbating reset your wanton inhibitions, Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima answers, mouth upturning into a devious grin as he gropes at the brunet again – harder. “Or maybe, you're _lying_.”

 

Yamaguchi doesn't answer, can't answer with the heady keen escaping his lips just as Tsukishima mouths at him slowly – silencing any further verbal sputtering on the spot. Before he knows it, the blond flips him around and walks him backwards towards the hall, somehow making a crafty grab for the bag at their feet as they move – graceless.

 

“Tsukki,” he finally mumbles as his heart palpitates uncontrollably. Yamaguchi's trembling body communicates his desires perfectly, much more articulate than any of the words springing to his pulsing lips before falling to the wayside.

 

He falls sideways, arm bracing against the wall as Tsukishima stumbles with him – pulls him straight and roams the space of his cheek with a hungry mouth, continues his romp.

 

Almost as if drunk, they move with chaos brim under their skin. It startles Yamaguchi as his hand slides away from smooth paint and fastens to the blond's shirt, clinging like mad.

 

Up to now, they always had a rhythm. 

 

Yamaguchi hitches with unsteady breaths, mind traipsing over the thought. Always a smooth water sway that he can only remain half-confused as to why they're so turbulent now, why they're both a mess capsizing over walls and tripping up on carpet and nothing at all in some saucy venture to get a mere twenty feet to Tsukishima's door. It hits him the moment his back connects with a hardwood door and lips softly steal his breath.

 

The reason the rhythm was always calm is because they've always had a distance between them. A distance that's now nonexistent with bodies pressed tight and air clinging to throats unable to take in air from the intensity of kisses. 

 

They didn't slowly inch here, they exploded to this point and the shrapnel of their open emotions showers havoc upon them both.

 

Thinking on it gets him nowhere fast, and his back hits a hard surface with a second thud. Stomping the remainder of his thoughts flat, Tsukishima roams up the subtle curve of the brunet's body with frigid hands – though Yamaguchi's unsure whether it's the winter cool or his growing arousal that causes the flourish of goose pimples littering his skin – and thumbs at Yamaguchi's lips.

 

A slow, gentle kiss closes their gap, sapping the very bones from his legs; it makes him ache horribly. If it wasn't for Tsukishima holding him upright, he figures he'd up and drop to the floor when the door opens behind him – ridding him of his last point of stability.

 

Once they pass the threshold, Yamaguchi feels the very air change on his skin, even when Tsukishima releases him to shut the door and turn on a dim lamp. Their only source of light besides faint street lamps and a howling moon curtained in clouds. Though the brunet tries to grab at some semblance of bearing, there is none to be had, and he simply moves mindlessly to the edge of the bed. The very bed he's only stared at a now uncountable number of times over the weeks.

 

Fantasized about for days on end.

 

Breathing growing unsteady and heavy by the second, he slides a knee into the smooth surface of the dark red comforter. It's cool to the touch, and for some reason, loaded with something that fills him with hyperactivity in his belly. Yamaguchi swallows, tries and fails to resist the small startle as that infernal plastic bag sails casually past his peripheral and onto the mattress. An invisible vacuum sucks the air from the room the moment the bags rustling ceases, leaving the swaying brunet's ear ringing from the silence – a silence left unbroken until a tiny hum breaks from Yamaguchi's clammy mouth as hands slink along his hips, massaging his pelvic bones.

 

The fabric of his shirt bunches up, ripples of cotton tickling him as Tsukishima light caresses his skin. Sighing, Yamaguchi lifts his arms without prompt, deliriously twisted up by a turn key made of urgent need for more, and his shirt immediately ascends his being at a torturous pace. Another wet gasp gushes forth as knuckles brush along sensitive sun-kissed skin, barely touching the protruding ribs before the clothing disappears to the floor.

 

Swaying, Yamaguchi waits on bated breath for those digits, those warm palms to return to his waist. It's plush lips that find him first – working a languid path from his prickling nape down the smooth slope of the brunet's neck.

 

“So,” hotness greets the shell of Yamaguchi's ear, followed closely by those sinful hands just dipping into the band of his sweatpants. “ – tell me, how exactly was I the one who _'started it_ ', Yamaguchi?”

 

The mouth on his throat, firm yet malleable as it trails in saccharine pecks along his skin, little flicks of tongue in just the right spots – and _god_ , there are so _many_ – and the distinct pangs of his heart clenching with each gentle bite, Yamaguchi lives it now. Lives the daydream that has haunted him day after day, inking his entire being in impalpable color, dark and passionate yet truly unreachable. Those moments of sudden elation, being pressed to the wall and kissed stupid, touched so tender that he isn't able to feel the floor beneath his feet, it's all here. _Here_ , right now for him to taste for himself, the palette utterly vibrant on his tongue, on his fingertips.

 

It now speaks in his ears, pierces his mind with velvet lullabies. It fills his lungs, charges them with air so thick and cloy and his heart, his damned racing heart beats with a tempo that preludes the oncoming flurry of erratic sensations – a symphony so lush and devastating.

 

Tsukishima has truly poisoned him beyond saving. He surrenders to the blond's whims, his words, his everything all too easily.

 

Yamaguchi's words cling to his lips, to his clattering teeth as the blond works a lazy spiral of wet, airy pecks along the edge of his collar.

 

He could easily perform a litany from how dazzling the ministrations feel, red and powerful and yet so laden with an unknown threat of something even stronger. But he stills lets himself indulge, allows the hands at his hips and the lips on his skin anchor him even as he undulates under the bliss of his best friend's touch. 

 

“I...” he tries, fails. He bites his tongue as Tsukishima suckles on a tender spot – there's sure to be a bruise there tomorrow. “ _I..._ you...”

 

For all proficiency he holds in articulation and languages, the brunet can't find the perfect string of words to really describe just what Tsukishima does to him now. What he has been doing to him all these days. It's suddenly indescribable. Intangible, even. Instead, Yamaguchi simply lets out a needy moan, his own fingers planting firmly on his best friend's, as if it's all he can manage.

 

He's unsure of whether he hears a chuckle or a contemplative hum just under the shell of his ear, but it strikes a spate of quakes down his spine, fissures his bones.

 

“This started with you, you know,” the whisper seeps into his brain. “Your none too subtle stares, your constant mouthy quips and –“

 

A digit traces over the swell of Yamaguchi's hip, and down the softness of his lower back. He remembers this touch, this very caress.

 

“ – that _touch._ ”

 

Gasping, the brunet leans back, gyrating against the firm person behind him and lengthening the span of his neck with a languid rest of his head on Tsukishima's collar – the embodiment of melting honey in the taller boy's hands.

 

Yamaguchi swallows hard, mind reeling.

 

There isn't a cell in his body that denies his lack of subtly, or his less than glamorous attempts at stifling his emotions. It truly would have been a miracle for Tsukishima to not to notice his circling around, dancing precariously in a very messy line of fire. The blow still punches the wind from his lungs, and squeezes it until his vision waters.

 

Lips graze Yamaguchi's ear, edginess reaching a rocky pinnacle as his nerves start to twitch with every breath that lingers – body rioting for something to just _happen_ so this sensual torture mitigates, so he can stop the torrent of thoughts creeping in.

 

Tsukki knew. Tsukki knew. _Tsukki knew._

 

“Yamaguchi –“

 

Tsukishima's tone drags out far too many emotions than Yamaguchi can wrap his head around, and it shows in the way the brunet sighs, rolls his body and helplessly fingers at the vice on his waist – pinning him in perfect rapport to his best friend.

 

“ – _you're driving me crazy._ ”

 

Eyes fluttering, Yamaguchi sucks in a noise – small, desperate, cathartic – and turns his head, shivering at his ear lobe pops from between the blond's teeth.

 

Unlike their previous series of blind leading the blind kisses, their lips meet perfectly – Tsukishima kneading with a kiss-plush mouth, tongue teasing between the seam and licking the smooth inside of Yamaguchi's bottom lip. They play a gentle game of tug o' war, one pushing the other with subtle force in the attempt to get closer, the heat sinking into their pores.

 

Yamaguchi hitches, keens softly as fingers dip into the band of his pants, this time taking the fabric with them. He lets it happen, lets his hands fall from their perch on bony knuckles and instead strokes a palm up Tsukishima's arm until it buries back into cowlick hair.

 

The cotton pools at his ankles, leaving a chill on his thighs that evaporates the moment Tsukishima's hands return to his hips, dipping lower over the fabric of his underwear – exploring with curious fingertips. The brunet drinks the sharp grunt that exhales into his mouth, licks at the tongue frozen midway between his lips from his knee-jerk tug at blond locks.

 

“Oi,” the twitching giant mumbles under Yamaguchi's pliant tongue working at his lips. The brunet peeks through low-lids, sees the pinking cheeks and nose, ears prickling at the sounds of Tsukishima's throat croaking. He pulls at the tresses a second time, and delves shamelessly into the warmth of his best friend's mouth.

 

He inhales his own name tipping off Tsukishima's lips, jitters consuming his stomach as the room spins around him and suddenly he's facing heavy, vivid amber irises. Hands snatch at him, rushing along his jaw and yanking him forward into a hard kiss while urgent movement simultaneously walks him to the bed. The blond stops short as the backs of his knees hit the mattress, but he refuses to unlock their mouths.

 

All the while, Yamaguchi sways, helpless under their frantic pace, under the touches that curve along his ribs and down his waist. Tsukishima sits, scoots until his only his feet hang off, and beckons for the brunet. Stretches his hand out, eyes so humid and brim with want – it's sharp enough to pierce Yamaguchi's thundering heart.

 

“Tsukki...” he breathes, utterly delirious, stepping forward like a fully wound toy.

 

“Come here,” the seated teen calls back.

 

And he does, easily slides a knee across cool blankets, hypersensitive skin practically dancing as Tsukishima strokes at a thigh – cupping freckle-peppered flesh and pulling him into his waiting lap. Yamaguchi flushes, the feeling of firm hip bones dipping into his haunches, reminding him of just where he sits and close they now are.

 

It electrifies him, makes him quake from being so naked and vulnerable.

 

“ _Tsukki_ ,” he whimpers, nuzzling into the palm cradling his burning cheek, guiding him down.

 

Tsukishima quietly shushes him, pecking his lips and letting the brunet lick at him only a couple spare moments before kissing a b-line path down Yamaguchi's now outstretched throat. He lavishes it with steel focus, but the tiny blossoms of pink with each suckle are momentary, fleeting like a breeze until he stops at Yamaguchi's sternum.

 

The skittish brunet arches back, the first scrape of teeth peeling a tight-lipped moan from him – thighs squeezing at Tsukishima's hips and hands locking around his neck at a needy catch of purchase. Toes spreading from the series of jolts, Yamaguchi squirms in his best friend's grasp, thumbs flirting oh-so-close to his groin as they work in firm strokes over the dip of his pelvis.

 

He accepts the tizzy flooding his head, the trip of adrenaline and arousal coursing through his muscles, spasms rocking his body. No frame of imaginary erotica trampling throughout his countless days of pining could have prepared him for this broken floodgate of overwhelming need that makes him twitter about in Tsukishima's lap as if a bird desperately fluttering its wings.

 

Lips popping open and closed in a silent mantra, the brunet jerks forward. The kisses and bites pampering his chest light his lungs with frantic breaths, feeble hiccups working their way out as the blond blatantly avoids all of Yamaguchi's most sensitive areas. Rimming the curves of his pectorals and licking a trail up his sternum, dipping into the valleys of his clavicle.

 

Madness is what it is, Yamaguchi reasons with what little fragment of coherent thought he has. Teasing is one of his best friend's peculiarities, there is no doubt that it's what he's doing now – curbing about his tender, freckled flesh with the intent to inundate until a garden of carmine colors him.

 

A soft, nimble pad slips under the fabric seam hugging Yamaguchi's thigh, firmly massaging a path before slipping back out. Repeats it with both hands, teases closer to the throbbing erection straining in his underwear. The brunet writhes erratically, whips his head back and whines – his mental rampage begging for Tsukishima to just blitz him already. He's a hard wire on the verge of snapping, hands unhinging and legs buckling.

 

“T-Tsukki... _Tsukki_ ,” the murmurs muffle with the burial of his face in flaxen hair, inhale of musk and trimmings of shampoo mutilating his senses. Lifting the shirt under his palms, Yamaguchi laments the lack of skin under his clinging fingers, desires the heat hiding under white polyester. 

 

He wants to savor the smooth caress of skin on skin, of mingling sweat and exhilaration. Wants to be more than a messy puddle in Tsukishima's trap, helplessly ensnared in frighteningly sultry touches and the wordless communications of want on his skin. Wants his most important person – the best friend he's  _ madly in love with _ – to experience palpitations and windless lungs and frantic heartbeats minute after minute. 

 

The idea of seeing Tsukishima unfolding from thirst is nothing short of absolute ecstasy. 

 

Dropping his arms, Yamaguchi folds his palms under Tsukishima's shirt, the briefest brush of contact fueling his urgency. Imagery of milky skin, water-colored in pink hues, the flavor of natural salt on his tongue as he tastes the length of a taut collar or the velvet smooth of a tender ear lobe – his blood runs wild at the thought.

 

He tugs the shirt up, ousting it from Tsukishima before the blond so much as twitches, and hastily plants his hands on the svelte body laid bare before him. Amber eyes flicker up, and the fingers on Yamaguchi's pelvis quiver as he roams earnestly across the expanse of cream and rose.

 

Under a spell, vivid and possessive, the brunet teases the trio of bumps that protrude in a neat row down Tsukishima's chest – ribs that sharpen with guttural inhalation. Dips down, thumbing a flat navel, curving to sculpt bony hips. Mission on high, Yamaguchi starts to map his best friend's body, physicality proving a much more vibrant picture. His enthusiasm for contact, brined in the poison of their suffocating arousal and that furious smutch of passion, springs to life in the brunet's mind instantly – sensations reaching deep down for permanence. 

 

Without trepidation – which is a wonder to Yamaguchi, there must be a broken spigot gushing energy through his system – he fingers at the button of the blond's pants, giddiness amplifying as he hears the stiffening whistle of air. And when he pops the fasten loose, Tsukishima grabs at him harder momentarily before leaning back to prop on sheet-fisted palms.

 

“Can I, Tsukki?” Yamaguchi whispers, so twitterpated with the flustered downcast face of the wiry giant that he's already starting to tug at the flaps of denim, zipper slowly dragging open before he even receives an answer. A low grunt and deeper tilt of Tsukishima's chin comes and goes, but the excessively long inflation of the blond's chest betrays his weak calm.

 

He stamps the view, and pulls the fabric down smooth legs, trying not to linger too long on the stiff tent hiding under dark green. Fumbling, Yamaguchi nervously chirps, crawling around until the pants join his own clothes on the floor before reclaiming his perch in Tsukishima's lap. A matching set, the both of them in only underwear and the blush dusting their cheeks. 

 

The brunet takes a moment, eyes transfixed between them – zoning in and out of surrealism. So close to touching, mere hairlines of space and they'd be grazing together. Just a roll of the hips, a small motion. Maybe his thoughts will swirl, or maybe they'll completely evaporate, allowing him to just soak in the eroticism – soak his best friend's heat all the way to his bones.

 

More to himself than anything, the brunet drops his chin, nodding to himself while scooping up what's left of his reason and tossing it far rear-side.

 

Just as Tsukishima takes plush thighs between splayed fingertips once again, Yamaguchi slowly lulls forward until their clothed erections – and _fuck_ , he's so hard, Tsukishima's hard, oh _god –_ briefly rub together. A sticky trill slips out, and a tingly burn mars his flanks – nails digging into his flesh as he's jerked forward roughly.

 

One look at the jaw-dropped expression on the blond's face, and his hips are rolling again. Gasps tumble from his lips, the friction makes him quiver on the spot and clutch at Tsukishima's shoulders for stability. His fingertips shake over the pale expanse, stuttering about because he can't stop moving.

 

Rhythm charged with the sensuous essence of a lambada, Yamaguchi rocks languidly, eyes trained on the slowly crumbling expression on his companion's face. The knot in his throat as it bobs with a heavy swallow, chest inflating with each buried grunt, the way Tsukishima bites harshly at his lip – licks it wet.

 

Their eyes meet, a fleeting gaze before Tsukishima moves in, noses bumping almost painfully, but a frantic kiss finds he brunet soon after. It lasts a moment, mouth sliding across his as if slipping over ice before he sees thin lips pucker and a hiss work its way from clenched teeth.

 

God, not even the most loquacious string of words could describe just how alluring the blond looks under him. Not a one, it's simply far too unreal.

 

Yamaguchi crowds him with a gentile smile, nuzzling and placing a series of pecks – not unlike thr very first back in his room – on a reciprocating mouth. The hands on his body coax him down harder, and he knows his underwear is dotting with pre-come with how deep the pooling in his belly is, and how hard his cock throbs under the fabric. Amazement doesn't even scratch the surface, severe elation flooding through him, and the imaginary taste of the moan coating his tongue only punches him with ample euphoria.

 

Daring; _needy_ , Yamaguchi leads the blond's clawing fingers up to the band of his underwear, hums low and pleasantly when the fabric immediately starts to descend down his hips. A flurry of pleading noises – if they're words they certainly aren't coherent enough to understand – pass between their lathering tongues as the elastic band catches on his dick. Awkward tug-o-war at its finest, he shuffles around, wobbling on one leg followed by the other as Tsukishima voids him of his last shield against complete openness.

 

Naked, utterly and completely, the heat of Tsukishima's stare creeps up and down. A provocative mix of erotic and nerve-wracking, likely because he's just not used to someone watching him with eyes that not-so-subtly devour his imperfect skin. The touches wander along in winding patterns, devolves into lascivious groping at the fleshy swell of his ass. Eager fingers slide along the cleft, denting his flesh as they card around in a circle, spreading him open while pulling him closer. 

 

It quickly quells the nervousness in him, yet amplifies the zeal as a mouth closes on his jaw.

 

“Yamaguchi.”

 

He'll never get used to that tone, that wanting pitch right next to his ear – scrambling his insides every time.

 

“Do you –“

 

“Don't ask,” he whimpers quietly, forking through the slightly damp locks on the blond's nape. “Please don't ask. Just touch me, Tsukki. I'm okay with anything, so... _please._ ”

 

Tsukishima peppers the peachy junction just under his ear, a humble chuckle laced with a shaky breath tickles his skin. He hears affirmation, just a small noise, but so glaringly loud in his head. They're going to cross it, that line that they've been dancing around this whole evening. So ready, Yamaguchi's so ready that colors patter behind his lids when he closes his eyes – pleasure and anticipation decorating his senses.

 

Tsukishima grabs at the bag, pulling it blindly next to them and fetching the bottle. Fumbles with it while still planting kisses down Yamaguchi's healing collar, sucking on a tiny constellation spotting his shoulder. The blond hums, hot air washing over the brunet's skin as the package relents and he tosses it off the bed.

 

Wordlessly, Yamaguchi takes the bottle, lifting onto knobby knees. The questioning look directed at him goes ignored as he pours a generous amount into his palm, playing with the cool liquid with a finger. Digging his toes into the mattress, he props himself up, letting an arm dangle lazily around Tsukishima's neck as he dips his other behind.

 

Caresses come to his hips, soft, unsure.

 

“Yamaguchi...”

 

“ _Shhh_ ,” the brunet coos softly. For reasons unknown, hearing his name, even hearing Tsukishima speak does much more to distill him with uncontrollable need. So he shushes him, if only to try and keep the tiniest bit of control he still clings to.

 

He curves, perking his ass, and presses a pad to his hole, “Just...just touch me, okay?”

 

“Okay?” the blond sounds watery, dazed.

 

“ _Yeah_.”

 

Rubbing himself one, twice, Yamaguchi pushes his finger into himself, a weak moan aiming high to the ceiling as he tilts his head back. So tight, heat enveloping his exploring digit – it's incredibly foreign, wetness of spare lube dripping down his knuckles.

 

Slowly, he works himself open, stroking deep with each return as the initial sting of intrusion subsides – leaving him with tickles of pleasure that shoot straight to his tense erection. His leg quivers when he rubs against a moist wall, nicking another mewl loose before he can help himself. Almost in his own world, teasing himself while Tsukishima's stare, that flushed face and harboring honey irises anchor him.

 

' _Touch me._ ' he mouths silently, running his flattened spare hand over his pillar of support.

 

Then finally, _finally_ , Tsukishima nudges Yamaguchi back into a soft curve – plucks a perk nipple between lips and teeth.

 

He drops his head back, noises multiplying, mounting high as a warm tongue rolls over the tingling bud. Slick with heat, he pushes into himself harder, grinding a knuckle against his quivering pucker – moving erratically in tandem with Tsukishima's prudent ministrations.

 

Leaving his entire body to waste, Yamaguchi thrusts deep, shooting a quick-fire of pleasure down a dripping mess of creaking bones and nerves of frantic electricity. The bolts trash him into broken rubble, crumbling and crumbling. Trapping him in a cloud of delirium, rising to the sky as he rides his own digits and the teen suckling at him – licking and nipping and scratching.

 

It peels him open as vividly as the finger buried deep inside, seams bursting and purging him of tact or grace. He can only messily rock himself insane. Only moan and gasp as every place that touches the blond before him vexes him further, a silent encouragement.

 

Within the waves of blurring senses and feverish resplendence, his body suddenly crests. His mouth drops open as another finger strokes lazily at his entrance, rubbing his own as it delves back into his ass.

 

Not his own.

 

Silent, the blond touches the swelling pink flesh, the smooth length of his wrist rubbing exquisitely between silken legs, his most sensitive areas. He doesn't say a word, only makes an inquiring hum and flicks a nipple with his unruly tongue. Nodding to no one but the white of the ceiling, Yamaguchi slips his finger out, curling it haplessly with Tsukishima's – tangling them, mingling slick lubricant as they graze.

 

He whispers, Tsukishima's name, over and over in a knell that spills from his self-bitten lips. Damp cheek nestling on Yamaguchi's chest, the blond watches each reaction and contortion from below as he flirts over the softening hole.

 

Yamaguchi writhes, riding the tip of both their fingers, and arches with a startle as an arm coils around him and he's opening up to the dual intrusion. He guides them inside, impatient for that wonderful ache to return, and hears a breath catching – unsure whether it's him or Tsukishima. Maybe both. Nose flaring, he pushes on his best friend's digit, urging him to rub harder. It's difficult to maneuver with such little space, but the full feeling of two leaves him breathless despite the clunky movement.

 

He can't bring himself to care when his own name whispers from a mumbling mouth, and Tsukishima airily bucks his hips – the head of Yamaguchi's cock bumping into his stomach, rubbing a moist trail of pre-come on alabaster skin. The finger stretching tenderly nudges to the brink, grinding and exploring as far as it can reach.

 

Yamaguchi lets his own digit slip out, instead pulling at his plush opening, as if it would allow more space for the blond to move. Whatever it takes to get closer, he'll do it – arm winding, hips twisting down.

 

A second of Tsukishima's fingers searches his warmth, working him with a deep rhythm. Perfectly executed once he moves on his own, taking sporadic moments to rut at the brunet's hole and _fuck_ , Yamaguchi sings when he does. His legs barely remain straight, muscles tense from constant battle to keep Tsukishima's fingers deep in his ass and their cocks connected at the same time. The stuttering frequency of a radio, surely a fitting description considering his haphazard demeanor and the mewls that bathe the room.

 

The blond slams him hard; it only serves to knock Yamaguchi voice loose, and he makes a frantic grab at the only piece of clothing separating them. Drops down the second time in tandem with the fingers that firmly dive into him, twisting himself in a mad craving for the way the dip of his best friend's navel speeds him to heaven when his cock grinds into it.

 

“Off, Tsukki, take it off. Come on,” he whines, thumbing at his favorite sharp pelvic bones. He gets a curious, if not drunk stare.

 

“Hey -”  
“ _Off Tsukki._ ”  
“ – are you okay?”

 

The question hovers between concern and subtle surprise. Yamaguchi groans, scandalized. Tsukishima's the one driving him into a tizzy, clearly he's anything but okay.

 

“No.”  
“Stop?”  
“No... _no.”_

 

“Yamaguchi.”  
“ _Tsukki_.”

 

A creeping shadow at the end of a blinding tunnel, the blond's voice beckons him, feeds his overshot mind. A craving that slowly takes over, pinching his insides. Insistent passion carves into him, wrenching a jumbled mess of words from Yamaguchi's mouth. He sends his hips round to elicit more quick lashes of euphoria before lifting away from his pleasure, still drunkenly attempting to remove the underwear tangled in his grip.

 

It proves difficult, Tsukishima squirms under him while rubbing betwixt cheeks, hips moving side to side as nails scrape along his skin. The blond pulls at a stiff nipple with shaky lips, exhaling to rid himself of the throaty hum reverberating out luridly, but Yamaguchi hears it loud and clear – senses sharp despite his muddled demeanor. Sharpens even further as his focus lays raw over his best friend, only moaning weakly as fingers attempt to curl inside, rubbing his sensitive hole.

 

But Yamaguchi refuses to tear his eyes away, all too knowledgeable to the game the fidgeting blond now plays – a crafty pirouette leading attention away from himself and a barely perceivable vulnerability. The brunet has seen it many times, fancies himself a tender smile for Tsukkieven _thinking_ he could trick him.

 

Every fiber in Yamaguchi's body craves the boy under him, no cast of shadows and distraction will deter him from bathing his best friend in a lavish pink. Won't stop him from exploring with tender caresses, soothe the crumbs of uncertainty that Tsukishima keeps shackled to his ankles for as long as he's known him – the way the blond leans close, suddenly hiding his chest and stomach with distracting kisses and hands.

 

Pursing his lips, Yamaguchi hooks his thumbs on elastic fabric in a moment of clarity – bare seconds between an echoing heartbeat and a hitched breath – and pulls. Throbbing pangs tight in his chest, Yamaguchi follows the curtain as it falls, revealing sharp pops of pelvic bones between wiry arms and the pale valley patched south with blond wispy curls until the dark fabric catches, stretched around tense thighs.

 

Humming lowly, the fingers still flirting between his cheeks and rubbing in an unsteady come hither, the twittering brunet immediately roams the alabaster under his palms. Smiling, he thumbs a series of silky lines – stretch marks born from much too rapid adolescent growth spurts – before curving slowly around the base of Tsukishima's jutting cock.

 

A short, startled grunt seeps into Yamaguchi's ears, a sound he finds alluring, delicious. The taste would be all too sweet on his tongue, cherries maybe. He delicately traces along the length, eyes tipping further to garner his best friend's kaleidoscope expressions – lilting eyes and stiffening jaw and curling lips.

 

Tsukishima lurches when the brunet rubs over the wet tip, jaw slackening with a gush of hot air.

 

Entranced, Yamaguchi grazes over it a second time, mimicking the spacial focus of the fingers greedily taking home back in the warmth of his ass – forking in random spurts.

 

“Yama... _uhh –_ “ Tsukishima snaps another hand to his plush thigh, clawing hard as he bites down a groan urged on by the gentle pinch on the head of his dick. Yamaguchi gazes carefully, peeks through his best friend's swollen lips to see a flick of tongue over chattering molars, and leans forward to kiss the gleam of sweat journeying down a trembling jaw.

 

He understands.

 

That sentiment of uncontrollable, reckless knee-jerk reactions leading him along, gears twisting around. He shares that desperation with each breath. Thoughts winding, spinning in his head – a mindless gibberish that only serves to exemplify the hunger that simmers just above everything else.

 

Yamaguchi sits, still rolling his weight, reaching some unknown height, unsure how to even begin placing the emotions dashing rampantly about, urging him with every touch and every whimper that wrenches his system. Drags him down and begs him to take it all and fall by its hand lest he be taken over by blurred daydreams and the mounting pressure squeezing him.

 

“Tsukki,” he finally murmurs once his lips find the lightly panting teen under him, passing his voice to the blond's mouth with a gentle lick. He blindly searches, finds the arm between his legs – warm and soft and driving him crazy – and slowly urges the slick hand away. The wet noise as fingers slip from his ass elicit breathy gasps from him and Tsukishima both – a tandem melody in Yamaguchi's ears.

 

He pecks at the blond continuously, playing with the wet fingers in his grasp, uncaring of the stickiness coating his skin a second time. It causes a riot, Yamaguchi's heart dancing in it's cage, as does the sudden rustle of loose plastic that sounds plain as day even through his muddled focus. Excitement flooding from his pores, he abandons his idle wandering in favor of taking care of the underwear still bunched around Tsukishima's legs.

 

Wobbling, he fists the cotton and yanks it, stumbles forward into his best friend. More than once he knocks foreheads with Tsukishima, stubbornly determined to remain perched in his lap while working the underwear down pale legs with a foot. For what it's worth, Yamaguchi relishes in knowing that Tsukishima moves with equal fervor, if the shreds of flimsy cardboard packaging fluttering off the side of the bed in rapid succession. Not to mention the firm kick that finally discards the underwear away to join the rest of their clothes.

 

Yamaguchi nearly whimpers when a lush thigh lifts between his legs, massaging, urging him back into place. He jumps to capture that focused, pouty mouth, but a foil wrapping touches his lips, interrupting his impending barrage of kisses. He takes it with a soft bite of teeth regardless, chest pattering as if the item itself tickles him senseless.

 

Wiping the clamminess away with the swipe of palms on the bedspread, Yamaguchi tears the foil open. The odd tang of rubber and lubricant wafts into his nostrils; he nearly sneezes from the pungent odor, face curling up as he plucks the condom away. He thinks maybe the novels he's read many a time aren't quite accurate, but then again almost getting tangled in his best friend's underwear or clunking about isn't exactly something written in fiction either.

 

Or maybe he's simply clumsy.

 

He decides exactly three seconds later that he doesn't care.

 

Seating himself, the flank beneath his aching ass spreading him open ever so slightly, Yamaguchi wraps a tight duo of fingers around Tsukishima's cock, unable to help the smile that spreads when a thick grunt breaks the string of soft pants. He mentally goads himself, rapid palpitations ransacking his mind like a rhythmic drum, and places the condom at the tip to unroll.

 

“Oi...” the blond hums, throat scratchy. “Yamaguchi, you have it upside down.”

 

Well, shit.

 

“Mm, mm.” Yamaguchi shakes his head despite the obvious evidence he finds, a breathy snicker flourishing a deep burn in his cheeks.

 

Tapping their foreheads together – which kind of makes the brunet wish the contact would knock him unconscious because who messes up the condom deal? – Tsukishima flips the rubber over and lets out an impalpably soft sigh as he guides Yamaguchi's hand down his cock. The sensation of his fingers slowly tracing down the subtle ridges and strong underside curve leaves him rigid, imagination frantically blueprinting how it will feel prying him open, buried deep inside. He fails to really coerce much more articulacy than 'hot' and 'amazing' and 'oh my god hurry up' than anything poetic or detailed.

 

He's long discovered how meeting the real thing trumps even his most vivid fantasies, but habits die hard.

 

Before he knows it, Tsukishima has them both finished, and his hands wander around smoothly to cup Yamaguchi's pliant cheeks and take him closer. But the brunet still leans seamlessly into the kiss that catches him moments later, puzzles pieces fitting perfectly together. It's frightening how easily he slips in and out of clarity, mind all over the place as if playing in a skipping series of freeze frames. How even when his eyes flutter shut, his hands slide naturally along the smooth slope of Tsukishima's cheeks and bury in flaxen cowlicks, yet all the while his body can't tell up from down.

 

Allowing the soft tongue licking at him to delve into his mouth, Yamaguchi meanders the idea of this being what it truly means to be absolutely crazy for someone. The point where feeling everything at once flirts precariously with numbing tingles, and reason ceases to exist. When touching isn't enough, when being pressed from head to toe isn't enough, when tasting every bead of sweat and sweet skin and hearkening each gasp only digs up a petulant greed. Unclean, uncontrollable, a violent storm dousing him between periods of a gentle drizzle – the kisses, soft touches, mesmerizing whispers.

 

Yamaguchi gladly soaks up the rain, the tongue gleaming over his teeth and fingertips kneading his flesh in needy rotations. He succumbs easily, allowing stolen breaths from his aching lungs, body bathed in heat and velvet caresses.

 

And when Tsukishima lathers his mouth, teasing the wet of his tongue, the madness seizes the brunet ruthlessly. Drags him like a helpless puppet on delicate strings, ready to snap, coercing moans even when Yamaguchi doesn't have a voice to speak. Goosebumps teeth at his nape, snowballing down a backwards curving spine to join the fresh wave of tingles where Tsukishima gropes.

 

“Tsukki _..._ ” an unfamiliar sound, guttural and starved, mewls as the blond coaxes him up. His cock nestles between Yamaguchi's thighs, the freckled teen grinding instinctively as the wetness of lubricant slicks over his hole.

 

“ _Tsukki..._ I wanna mess you up. So _bad._ ”

 

The blond bites him, hands shaking on Yamaguchi's hips. “Just how fucked up do you want me to be... _shit_...”

 

Then, a hoarse whisper of his name and the brush of thumbs down the slope of his pelvic bones has him thirsting harder.

 

He claims his fill greedily, arm tightly wound around Tsukishima's neck as he lowers himself. He calls out somehow through puckered lips, a low whine that sounds out all the bliss exploding as his best friend's cock spreads him wide. Even as he wobbles, both from the overwhelming heat plunging into him and the fidgeting of the blond beneath him, Yamaguchi manages to roll his hips on the descent – yet another weak noise bubbling out.

 

Nails clamp into his flesh within seconds, the barest warning before a sharp gasp blows over his collar and the sudden bucking of Tsukishima's hips wrenches a sting down Yamaguchi's body – nerves screaming like a flickering light, brief and bright.

 

It takes him by surprise, the brunet's head popping back as his body wilts instantly. A whimper dribbles from his trembling lips, the afterimage sting dredging up tears to his fluttering eyes. He doesn't register the soft pecks and gentle apologies peppering his neck for a short while, not until Tsukishima's pulling him forward until their bodies mold and Yamaguchi feels the pounding of his best friend's heart thrumming with his own.

 

He tries to mumble a response, mouth opening erratically as voiceless words cling to his tongue, can only hold on tight as he continues to sink completely on Tsukishima's throbbing cock – ignoring protests as the pain disperses and the fullness of hitting the brink softens his wildcat nerves. Raking the ceiling with lazy olive eyes, Yamaguchi releases the air packed in his lungs.

 

The first return of euphoria quivers in his gut as he wriggles, a sweet hum making its way from his sticky throat, rolling from his mouth as he straightens forward. Meets with arousal-ridden amber. The blond shifts, roaming along Yamaguchi's skin, up his waist and back down his stomach in a soothing massage as a wince crosses the brunet's features.

 

“...are you okay?”

 

Yamaguchi nods. “I...I think I came already.”

 

His face burns, hand pushing at Tsukishima's face as he looks between them, and an almost cheeky smile adorns his flushed face.

 

“I suppose it _was_ a long time coming.”

 

“Don't be mean, I still feel it in my toes.”

 

Yamaguchi quickly decides he really favors the expression he receives as he paws at the red of Tsukishima's cheeks.

 

“Sorry.”

 

Humming, the brunet writhes about, purring from the lick of pleasure that strokes his thighs. He rolls, squeezing the delicious hips that wear him snugly, and guides Tsukishima's gaze back to his.

 

He bends, steals a kiss, sucks the tongue that touches the seam of his lips, “Shut up, Tsukki.” His tone drops, low and delirious. The blond returns the gesture, nipping.

 

“Now you say it,” he groans softly into Yamaguchi's mouth, body warm as he hugs him close. He sighs, cheek sliding along his best friend's, nuzzling over the warm curve – a small attempt to absorb as much heat as he can before hands urge and pry as his ass.

 

The small moan that filters into the air as the brunet answers the gesture with a light sway of his body relights him instantly.

 

Yamaguchi lifts onto quaking knees, mouth opening as his walls pull with his movement. Locking his grip as a means of grounding, he rises until the tip of the blond's cock edges him, slickly pops from his entrance. He almost laughs – whether from embarrassment or that gurgling sense of impatience, he's unsure – and reaches behind him, stomach tumbling about as he brushes up the length of Tsukishima's cock. The humid pants washing over his clavicle certainly don't help keep his head on straight either.

 

Keening, Yamaguchi lowers himself, girth just as tight, just as breath stealing. Much too late does he find it near impossible to breathe, the very room eschew of air as if it simply ceased to exist.

 

A chain reaction soon comes into motion, clumsiness due to over-stimulation and their long limbs tangling make it difficult to create a rhythm. He bites his lip, eyes screwing shut as he aimlessly nips at wherever his teeth can reach – a needy tick to have something, _anything_ to keep hold of that pleasure ringing in his bones.

 

A second, third time later, Yamaguchi relents, reducing himself to a rutting mess as he gnaws in frustration on Tsukishima's neck. His thighs ache, his ass wet with lubricant and the cock frotting over his entrance over and over.

 

He's lost his damn mind.

 

The hands on his hips tremble as they dig into bone, tugging and leading the brunet about as if it would alleviate the tension swarming around them.

 

Yamaguchi whimpers weakly, arms tight around the blond beneath him as he seats himself on his best friend's rigid cock – leaving him jelly in Tsukishima's lap. Even slackened, his thighs quiver, ass perking out just so to string tingles down his spine. It spiders over his legs, up his arms, a quiet pleasure but one Yamaguchi claims with gluttony.

 

Feeling the sudden pepper of lips on his shoulder, the brunet moves, slowly rotating his hips forward. The gasp in his ear has him rolling back, and the hands splayed over his ass, clawing with a possessive vigor.

 

Then, Tsukishima writhes, forehead burying into his neck clouding the sound of a pinched, blithe groan.

 

Instantly, with the difference of night and day, of a sudden jarring whiplash, Yamaguchi reels back. Snaps his head still, body pulsing with the renewed rush of excited blood. It's like he's finally found the switch in the dark, and he rushes to turn on the light.

 

He stares, eyes dark through dim lashes. His palm strokes down the sharpness of Tsukishima's collar bone, nails dragging until he flattens his grip on the blond's chest.

 

“ _Down._ ”

 

Tsukishima rears back, eyes wide, but Yamaguchi gives him no reprieve before pushing the startled teen to the bed. The tube of lubricant tips off the side of the bed from their shaky descent, but he reasons that its definitely no longer necessary. Not with how wet he is between his flush cheeks, the mess glorious between his legs.

 

The blond falls flat, glasses clattering off over his mouth. For a moment he doesn't move, and after that he can't – Yamaguchi prowls forward, hands pinning him with a press on knobby shoulders. He roams with heated eyes, traveling down the pale palette of Tsukishima's stomach, flat plain tensing with each rise and fall of his chest.

 

Yamaguchi smiles; somehow the sight of his disheveled best friend sucker punches him splendidly in the gut. Even as fingers lace around the cusp of his elbow, he simply leans down, plucking the glasses and setting them safely off to the side.

 

Maybe he spends too much time admiring the fuchsia hue the blonds cheeks, or the soft pink of his untouched nipples. Large hands wandering, eyes blown and trained on him – as much as Yamaguchi loved being up close and personal, the view from above carries its own set of allure. Seeing the ebb and flow of stuttered breathing, and the tiniest slips of expression that Tsukishima seems all the more desperate to bite down now that he can't hide with kisses on freckled skin.

 

Falling apart from underneath him.

 

“Tsukki,”Yamaguchi breathes, sucking a brief flower of red on the curve of Tsukishima's jaw.

 

Perhaps in his daydreams their roles would be reversed. Every memory he recalls certainly solidifies this fact. All too many times, the blond jerking him to the wall, claiming his lips. Snatching him by the nape, biting him until red bruises rival his sea of freckles on his shoulders. Roughly pinning him to the bed, bending him until the tops of his thighs caress the bed and he's glutted with insatiable heat and a hard cock that fills him until he's open and screaming.

 

The reverie he experiences now is so, _so_ much different – fumbling and messy and chaotic – but he can't help but admit how fitting their clumsy exploration is.

 

He finds that he doesn't want that passionate, perfect sex.

 

He simply wants this moment.

 

Wants _Tsukki_. To feel good with him.

 

Heart throbbing in his ribs, Yamaguchi rounds to pucker at Tsukishima's mouth, closes his eyes when the blond seeks him out instantly. The rupture of nerves quickly accelerates as tongue sweeps through his lips. He takes the chance, the distraction to slowly lift his ass – hips angling just right.

 

He waits, lathers and suckles the pink tongue lavishing him. Waits until Tsukishima's mouth opens wide to delve deeper, jaw slack, exhalation billowing from deep in his lungs to swiftly clutch his foundation tight.

 

And slams his hips down _hard_ in a clean arc until the brink grinds at his asshole.

 

Tsukishima folds instantly, tendons in his throat popping as his head snaps back into the mattress. A guttural cry soaks the room, unabashed and raw and Yamaguchi shivers from the sound as he watches amber disappear behind heavy lids. Biting his plump lip, he muses about the bruises that are sure to litter his waist and flanks in the morning – anticipates it, in fact.

 

Widening his legs, the brunet tilts down again, perking his ass up before careening back on the cock that swells with heat along his walls. Feverish, he strikes a steady cadence, rocking like a smoothly churning gear. He sits up with a breathless sigh as a flurry of inaudible slurs stumble from his best friend's teeth-clenched mouth.

 

Glimpsing the firm glide of Tsukishima's Adam's apple, he mewls aloud, “ _Tsukki..._ ”

 

A prying groan answers him, as do the hands that snatch his waist, kneading roughly as Yamaguchi moves.

 

He continues to stare as the body below him flexes and crests subtly with each mill of his tight ass. Wonders with a fever-addled brain if its possible to map the structure of bones hiding under the surface of milky peach skin – sweeps a hand over the valley that forms with a deep gulp of air. Humming as the sensation of suppleness commits to his mind, he smooths the pads of clammy fingers over two, three ribs. Another whistle of air allows him to bump over the ridge of a forth before silken flesh fills his palm again, the blond arching into his touch.

 

Yamaguchi flutters with a twist of his hips, the ridges and curve of Tsukishima's cock hitting him perfectly as grinds. It burns him from the inside, drags out desperate noises and fills him with an inner plea to find more of that aching euphoria. Even as his thighs quake with the tickles of strain, he only buries deeper – dropping himself hard until the fingers wandering his body shake from the force of their grip.

 

The growing unfiltered pleasure present in Tsukishima's lulling gaze – tripping back as he nails the pillow with another throw of his head, cluttering forward as a certain angle lights the amber of his eyes into bright burning coals – claws up Yamaguchi's body in a violent surge. He bites his lip, revels in the lavish view.

 

He ventures higher, the imprint of a lithe waist and rocky slopes of Tsukishima's hips burned well to memory. With a sensual pucker of his lips, he brushes over the velvet pink of the blond's nipple, tingles reviving ten fold in his groin as a startled gasp rings out. Yamaguchi eyes the softness under his thumb, grazing over it playfully until it pebbles under his strokes.

 

“ _Ha-ah, shi –“_

 

Tsukishima stiffens, hands sealing hard over the swell if Yamaguchi's ass. He squirms, body sinking into the bed as he lurches, and abruptly snaps his hips up in a brutal thrust.

 

Yamaguchi keens, rolling a nipple between his fingers, “Does it feel good...? Right here?”

 

Some sort of curse grates through the gluttonous pant of oxygen before he pulls Yamaguchi forward on his lap, the girthy contour of his cock rubbing right along the warmth of his insides. The brunet urges him on, slipping even further forward before rushing back down – ass squelching tight in sporadic spasms.

 

“ _Tsukki~_ ”

 

They finally rediscover their rhythm.

 

He looks down, ignores his absent rubbing on a stiffened nipple to steal a glance at his best friend's expression, the open-mouthed panting much too beguiling – it reaches out and grabs him forcefully by the throat and leads him to the blond's unraveled face.

 

The gleam of sweat on narrow brows adds a distinct pallor to the open span of Tsukishima's forehead, licks of pale blond matting to the fringe. Simmered glow of natural honey burns into Yamaguchi with a fleeting flicker of his irises, soon hidden by the gradual curtain of lashes. Tsukishima shudders, sharpening the generous length of his throat. He bends, _bends_ until those fluttering lids are masked by cotton and fluff, and lets out a sordid groan.

 

Yamaguchi feels his own chest constrict, trying to taste the emotion off Tsukishima's tongue from his perch. If it tastes anything like the delicious waves careening down his spine and nesting in his groin, then he wants more of it. Whatever is squelching his belly, scrambling it from the inside as he swings back and forth, body taut like a whip yet pliant and delicate to each pulse ravaging him.

 

Tsukishima yanks him down again, sharp pelvic bones jutting up into Yamaguchi's thighs. An obscene tune of their flesh meeting hard shakes a moan from the brunet's mouth – coaxes an even more guttural one from the teen below him. Yamaguchi looks down, and stops breathing completely.

 

Buried in the pillow, Tsukishima swallows, and those kiss-swollen lips quiver in the dim light.

 

“Tsukki...” Yamaguchi allows those prying hands to guide him up, the licks of filthy noise as his ass joins the blond's thighs slamming him flat with pleasure. He begs quietly, coil twisting ever so tightly as the fumes of sweat and sex and that fucking citrus drug make him tremble atop his best friend's lap.

 

“ _Tsukki...Tsukki –_ “

 

Tsukishima's name simply drips from his lips, wet and brilliantly clear. He finds the thrusts of his best friend's cock more forceful as his mewls increase, those amber eyes fixed sharp on Yamaguchi's mouth as he writhes and bounces.

 

The ferocity in Tsukishima's stare only serves to rile the brunet up more, his come-soaked cock hard and throbbing in its messy sheath.

 

Tsukishima lifts him again, nails angry on his skin, and blissfully punishes with a trio of shallow thrusts before driving back into him – thick and full to the hilt. The thrill of his body's subjecting to rough ministrations floods his veins with an ecstasy rush, heart pounding so hard a drum pierces Yamaguchi's ears.

 

“Tsukki – “

 

“ _Sh –“_

 

“ _Mmm, Tsukki...!”_

 

Yamaguchi tosses forward, long legs bucking him up just as a pair of fingers find his mouth and dive inside. Even as they press and play with his wet tongue, and he suckles on them with an appreciative moan, he hears Tsukishima hiss from below – voice so low as if it takes everything he has to grit out anything coherent.

 

“ _Shut up, Yamaguchi._ ”

 

The all too nostalgic words pinch at Yamaguchi's throat, he sighs regardless as he tongues at the digits in his mouth. A mess pools under his suckles, though he could care less of the saliva dribbling off his chin.

 

He's a mess, a mess, a fucking glorious mess.

 

He can only urge himself to ride quicker, thighs so raw with excursion that he only finds bliss climbing up to cling at his rib cage. It strangles his air, fucks up his rhythm completely. Yamaguchi swallows his best friend's fingers, squeezes his ass in tandem, wily and taunting. He rocks hungrily, feeding off a humid runner's high as the digits fall from his lips, falling down until they claim their place back on Yamaguchi's ass.

 

They're moving so fast, hands on his body grabbing, spreading him open, scratching streaks of pink lightning on his skin. Over-stimulation, cock jutting up so deep it almost hurts, strikes him to the point that he's brim with dizzy tears. His moans string together like a sticky love song, a continuous lyrical that rises in pitch as he tries to find grounding under his palms.

 

“So good, it's– _Tsukki..._ ”

 

He gasps as pain riddles his waist, thumbs drilling his bone as if trying to snap them in two as Tsukishima bites through his orgasm – lip abused between teeth. His cock swells, pulses filling Yamaguchi perfectly as he comes.

 

The brunet reels back soon after, mouth dropping open in a stricken cry as he follows close behind.

 

Struggling for breath, struggling harder to lasso his thoughts back into his brain, Yamaguchi lulls in the blond's lap. His shoulder shake, hands numb as he feels for the warmth of Tsukishima's stomach.

 

Always searching for his warmth.

 

Nimble fingers find him, tracing along his wrists and tugging him gently.

 

“Yamaguchi,” the guttural sound of Tsukishima's voice calling for him makes the poor brunet whimper as the blond pulls out. He barely manages to rope a couple blurry thoughts in – ears throbbing, thighs hurting, everything in between blazing with afterglow and euphoria – and tips sideways with the hands coaxing him gently to the bed.

 

The moment his body molds with the cool mattress, Yamaguchi falls limp. He wills the feeling back in his rebelling limbs, a thick layer of lethargy blanketing him as tingles give way to a soreness that he wants to rub away. Mumbling, he wishes he could see clearly enough to gauge the look on his best friend's face. Part of him is also glad he can't, now that his mind returns to processing the events of the entire evening.

 

He might just let out some weird giggle if he so much as opens his mouth, so Yamaguchi refrains and watches Tsukishima get up with a roll of his shoulders to move about the room. He figures he should follow suite, at least take care of the wet mess in his lap before the bedspread gets dirtied.

 

And dirty is an understatement – a hand laden in sticky white from the briefest of touches along his happy trail tells him that much.

 

Again a knot of laughter tickles at his throat. It leaks out when Tsukishima nears him, leaning tall and oh-so-present over Yamaguchi's curled up form – coming out in a weak, grating hum as he nuzzles into the fingers that sweep some hair from his face, brushes down his flush cheek as the blond bends to gift a lingering kiss to his mouth. It guides his giggles to a rebirth, lungs light and fluttery.

 

He's too twitterpated to care much about how silly he sounds, skin sensitive to the briefest touches. Maybe there's such a thing as post-sex jitters? He certainly feels them now, deep in the belly that still feels the phantom of fullness welled up inside.

 

Tsukishima exits the room for a while, the brunet counting the speckles on the ceiling as he hears his own heart lull into a calm. He closes his eyes, inhaling deep and wriggling to gain some feeling back in his sore legs. Yamaguchi still grins through the ache though, fingers playing with the baby rounds of pink kissed into the skin of his chest. Some light, some dark, all of them rousing delicate tresses of after-pleasure in his belly.

 

A cold sensation meets his forehead, he almost jumps but a hand on his collar stops his ascension. Yamaguchi looks up, a glass of water on the flat on his skull, and a curious blond peering down at him.

 

The brunet blinks, grins sheepishly because he's still messy and naked and the cloth in Tsukishima's other hand assumes that his best friend is aware too. That only makes the happy-dust fly wilder in his chest, though he only offers that churlish smile and crosses his eyes as the glass floats on him without support.

 

“Don't spill now,” Tsukishima teases, index tripping over the bump of Yamaguchi's collarbone.

 

“I'm not the one who has to do laundry tomorrow,” he replies as he grabs for the potential downpour. He leans up and takes a sip, eyeing – his _what_? – Tsukishima as the blond wipes him clean with the moist towel.

 

His...?

 

“Does this make us boyfriends, Tsukki?” he dares to ask, sleepy tone bringing amber eyes up to him as he lays back to the bed.

 

Wordless, Tsukishima grabs the glass from him and stretches to place it somewhere safe and out of Yamaguchi's sight. Lays down next to him moments later and flicks his nose with the pad of his finger.

 

“If it doesn't, we might have to have a talk.”

 

The brunet squirms, gruff voice making him tingly all over.

 

“We kind of went out of order, huh?” Yamaguchi admits, lashes low.  
“And whose fault is that?”  
“Yours.”  
“Mine?”  
“Mm.”

 

Tsukishima snorts, lets it drop.

 

He starts to tap those fingers of his, softly on his ribs, everything starting to sink in as the clarity returns from his afterglow-hazed mind. His _boyfriend's_ join him moments later, threading soundlessly through his thumping digits and calling them to rest. Yamaguchi flirts his gaze to where the blond stares at him, mouth pursed.

 

“I don't have a set of horns to go with that second head of mine, do I?”

 

Yamaguchi balloons his cheeks, “How rude.”

 

Tsukishima chuckles, nudging him with a bony knee and it's then he catches the light flush on pale cheeks. It's also when he realizes with the generous admiration of light lashes and still dizzy amber eyes that his boyfriend lacks glasses. He fishes for them blindly from the corner of the bed, awkwardly bending about until he gets them nestled comfortably on his boyfriend's face.

 

“Cuter, but still rude,” he admonishes, tilting his head in mock contemplation.

 

Tsukishima flattens a palm over Yamaguchi's face, rubbing his nose, “At least you were able to see clearly.”

 

Ah.

 

The brunet sits up, letting the hands slide off his body before flipping a rebellious leg over Tsukishima's waist – straddles him with a quiet purr. The body under him freezes, but the warmth is obvious as it seethes between his thighs. Fingers stammer over his hips as his lover – god, he'll never get enough of this – takes an eye-full, honey roaming up and down without reserve.

 

“What are you doing?” Tsukishima exhales, head dropping to the pillow. He murmurs an even more hushed ' _Fuck._ ' under his breath.

 

“Giving you a clear view, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi says, leaning forward. “And as much as I'd love to re-demonstrate our earlier activities for you – believe me I want to _so bad –_ but my everything hurts right now.” 

 

The blonds eyes dart to life, and the palms on his waist force his gravity sideways a second time. He's back to laying next to the blond, their bodies much closer than previous. Yamaguchi offers a soft laugh, cups a boyish cheek and settles. Listens to Tsukishima suck in tiny huffs of air before releasing them to the space between their faces. 

 

Then, Tsukishima rocks forward, turns into the hand – the movement nearly intangible. 

 

“You're late...” he murmurs, closing his eyes. 

 

Lungs catching, Yamaguchi melts. Can't help but close their distance and peck at slightly parted lips until his boyfriend's pushing back into him. 

 

“Sorry, Tsukki,” he whispers, mouth still affectionate on the blond's chin. 

 

The hand on Yamaguchi's waist tightens, just so. 

 

“Shut up, Yamaguchi...” 

 

Unable to help the grin that befalls him, Yamaguchi playfully snorts and snuggles just a bit closer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ohhhh boy, long read, I know. It didn't jive right to split it, so I kept it as is. Hopefully it's still good for you all. Thank you for reading, feedback is totally welcome - either here or my Tumblr (zephyrcamida). Thank you for reading and hopefully until next time (a much sooner next time). <3


End file.
